Illusory
by pale-blue11
Summary: There is an unmarked gravestone in the Risembool Cemetery, surrounded by undisturbed grass. It appeared a week after their failed transmutation, and still no name has been carved on its surface. Edward and his armoured brother found it strangely intriguing. They could sit before it for hours. Yet they could never see the inscription: Alphonse Elric 1900-1910.
1. Introductions

**_ILLUSORY_**

 ** _This is a bit of a preview. The rest of the chapters'll be posted once I write them in a few months or so. Thank you for taking the time to read this!_**

 ** _Chapter 1 • Introductions_**

"You broke her!" Winry screamed in despair and outrage, tears already threatening to roll down her young cheeks. "You broke her!"

Edward grunted and tugged at the doll caught in his hand. "It's not my fault!" he argued, raising his voice to be heard over his friend's sobbing. "It got caught in my automail! If anything, it's _your_ fault for not tightening the bolts enough!"

"My automail is perfect," the youngest automail engineer retorted loud enough to rattle the windows. Her face was turning a worrisome crimson that clashed horribly with her cheery pink dress. "You're just an _idiot_!"

Finally, the doll's woollen hair escaped from the junction of his thumb and metal palm. "There!" Ed thrust the toy into Winry's lap and stood up in a hurry, in case she was carrying anything hard and painful. "Your _stupid_ doll's fine!"

"No, it's not!" Winry wailed, threading the wool through her fingers as if she could weave the strands back into obedience. "Her hair's ruined! I _hate_ you, Edward!"

Edward, in a great display of twelve-year-old maturity, stuck out his tongue and blew a raspberry before fleeing the crime scene. His gait was a bit uneven, and his bare feet made contrasting _thuds_ and _clicks_ on the hardwood of the Rockbell's home—but that was to be expected. Granny Pinako had been impressed at his ability to run—or shamble, as it was—merely ten months after his surgery. It had filled him with warmth, and Alphonse had let out a quiet sigh of relief.

In just two months, the deadline would appear, and Edward wouldn't have to withstand Winry's irrational attacks any longer. They were unjustified, and always painful.

He huffed as he threw open the front door and quickly limped past Pinako, up to her elbows in mud and weeds. He was followed, as always, by his clanking brother, who answered Granny's shocked questions with a politeness that Ed just _couldn't_ emulate. Nevertheless, she continued to ask where he was going until he was already well down the road.

In just _two months_ —just _two_ —Edward Elric would leave the small town of Risembool for the tall buildings and exciting bustle of Central. The Lieutenant Colonel had promised him funds, and in exchange, Ed would promise him loyalty. But the real promise had been entrusted to Al:

Ed would get his brother's body back.

 **XxX**

Pinako Rockbell watched her honorary grandson stumble down the road on a leg that perhaps needed more time to recover, and her mouth turned downwards in a frown. She knew, from that reaction, Winry was inside crying over yet another mishap. How that boy managed to create so much trouble was beyond her. It was both admirable and insufferable.

"Granny…" Winry sniffled from the doorway. Pinako met her granddaughter's watery gaze and resigned herself to the fact that she wouldn't be doing any more gardening that day. The girl raised the evidence in her hands and her lower lip trembled. "He did it again."

Pinako nodded and slowly clambered to her feet, using the house to aid her. Both knees announced her age with loud cracks. "Wait for me in the lounge, Winry. I need to wash my hands."

Winry gave one last sniff, then did as instructed. Sighing, the eldest Rockbell made her way over to the outside tap and let it wash away the remains of her work. It wasn't enough to banish the grease stains on her palms and beneath her nails, however. She had seen the tattered hair clutched in Winry's small fists, and therefore had a strong idea as to what had made Edward run. After all, it wasn't the first time such a thing had happened. It was beginning to become monotonous.

"You idiot boy," she muttered humourlessly, and shut off the tap. "What's she gonna tell me today?"

Winry was waiting on the couch, just as her granny had specified. Her feet were still. Her fingers were fidgeting. Her expression was miserable. Edward's condition affected her much more than anyone else.

Beautiful blue eyes glanced up as Pinako took the seat beside her and rubbed her shoulder in a comforting manner. She would have offered a smile, but knew that to be useless. When it came to this, nothing could raise Winry's spirits except Winry.

"What happened this time?" Pinako asked gently, continuing to rub her granddaughter's shaking back.

"H-he had Lucy," Winry hiccupped and scrubbed at her blotchy face. "We were playing dolls. They were ha-having a tea party, and h-he… E-Ed…"

"He unravelled Lucy's hair?" Pinako urged as Winry's gaze fell to the floor and she nodded.

"He said i-it was caught in his automail, Granny. He doesn't _ha-have_ an automail hand!" With that, the girl dropped Lucy and wound tight arms around her granny's waist. "B-but he was—was so… so _convinced_ th-that her hair was caught on a bolt. H-he," she gasped for breath, "was just pulling it apart. I saw! I really saw, Granny!"

As Winry's hiccups evolved into sobs, Pinako tried to calm her with gentle noises and kind words. They came automatically now; she'd been forced to do this so often it had become routine. A sympathetic ear worked wonders for her young charge, even if it offered no advice. Perhaps Winry wasn't after advice—perhaps she only wanted someone to listen and murmur empathetically as she unburdened herself of her worries.

"Granny?" The girl lifted her tearful eyes and filled them with so much distress it tugged at Pinako's conscience. How could she have let the situation spiral so far out of control? She should have _done something_ the night she had found Edward lying—half dead—in their basement. Alone. "Granny? How do we help him? He's sick, isn't he?"

Pinako's expression tightened. 'Sick' was such a versatile word. But yes, Edward was sick. And so she nodded. "I'm afraid he is, sweetheart."

"But w-we can fix it."

"Of course we can," Pinako lied, holding Winry tightly so the girl wouldn't see the doubt on her lined face. It was so hard to hide a worry when it carved chasms in her skin. "He's already getting better, isn't he? It's just shock, Winry; he'll break out of it."

Winry nodded against her chest. "E-Ed's strong, right, Granny? Will he be normal soon?"

Pinako let out a quiet, soothing chuckle. "Oh, Winry. When has that boy ever been normal?"

Winry replied with a giggle, her tears banished by a series of untruths. Pinako so wished she was able to dispel her own fears with such ease. But no—there they remained, at the forefront of her mind.

"Would you like to start dinner?" the old woman asked, stroking Winry's arm in encouragement, and Winry agreed in a soft mumble. "What will you make?"

"Stew," the girl said as she jumped from the couch and headed towards the kitchen. "So you tell Ed that I'm making his favourite, and that he'd better come home."

Pinako smiled, but then her granddaughter paused.

"And," she turned back to fix Pinako with a displeased expression, "tell him he still needs to fix Lucy's hair." Huffing, she disappeared in a flash of blonde and pink.

 **XxX**

Edward only had one hiding place. Oh, there was the old Elric household, standing dark and dusty at the top of the hill. There was the riverbank that Alphonse once favoured. There were numerous abandoned animal holes and hollow trees in which a young boy could have fit. But Pinako knew to ignore them. Edward only had one hiding place.

And it wasn't very hidden. The crown of his golden head was visible as soon as the cemetery came into view. Among the grey headstones, he stood out like a beacon, though not necessarily one of hope or any form of positivity. Maybe he had been one, once upon a time, before the fairy tale ended. But that was a long time ago. Before his father left, and his mother died. Before he abandoned any hope of a normal childhood, and instead pursued forbidden alchemy. Before he executed that forbidden alchemy, and sacrificed his left leg.

Before he lost his brother.

Pinako had considered herself a rather adequate replacement for the boy's parents—for their mother, at the very least—but even the greatest must struggle through defeat, and she was _far_ from the greatest. She had allowed her foster sons to run off with two complete strangers, ignorant to the reason behind their desire to learn alchemy. But wasn't it obvious? After all that time, and thought, the paths that led to this present problem were straight and clear. It was only later that the thorns appeared. And so, if anyone ever asked the Rockbell monarch what her worst failure was, she wouldn't say 'The Elric brothers', because that was a complete lie. _They_ weren't her failures. Her own lack of knowledge was to blame.

"Edward," she said when the ends of her shadow tickled the child's neck. He didn't reply; only his taut shoulders betrayed his awareness of her. "Edward. I want to talk to you."

"I didn't mean to ruin her _stupid_ doll," Edward muttered petulantly. He then waited a few seconds, and replied, "Yeah, I know."

The second statement caused Pinako's brow to crease in concern, as it wasn't meant for her. It was meant for the hallucination that had followed him ever since the failed transmutation: Alphonse, in the form of a large suit of armour.

Apparently.

"I'm not here to talk about the doll, Edward," Pinako revealed, and if anything, the boy grew more wary.

"Then what?"

For a few moments, Pinako contemplated sitting beside her grandson. But her old bones seemed to _creak_ at the idea, projecting their displeasure at the idea quite vocally. "I just wanted to talk." To be honest, she was at a loss for words.

Ed grunted and wound his thin arms tighter around his knees. "I don't wanna talk. Not to you."

"What about Winry?"

He shook his head vigorously, sending his golden bangs flying in all directions. "She can't, Al. Just shut it."

"Edward." Oh, to hell with it. Pinako laid the blanket she had brought for her grandson on the ground and carefully lowered herself down. "Can we speak privately, please?"

He looked across to her suspiciously. "Why can't Al stay? He won't interrupt, right, Al." Whatever the hallucination said appeared to appease Ed, as he turned back to Pinako with a wide—if cautious—grin. "See?"

She matched it as well as she was able. Allowing Edward to continue in the manner in which he was—that is, believing that his brother still walked beside him every day—was dangerous, and she knew it. She knew it, but couldn't stop. Because whenever she or Winry or any of the several doctors Ed had met so much as _alluded_ to the word 'hallucinations', Edward shut down.

It was terrifying, to see that face which held so much trust crumple so quickly into cagey despair. Maybe Edward didn't notice the sorrow he displayed; maybe it was subconscious. It seemed that even if his mind couldn't focus on reality, his instincts were trying their best to warn him regardless.

It was for that reason Pinako couldn't bring herself to utter those simple, damning words. ' _Edward, Alphonse hasn't been here for a long time'. 'Edward, you need to snap out of it.'_

 _'_ _Edward, I'm worried about you_ '.

It was cowardly. Selfish. But she couldn't say anything, at the risk of losing _both_ of the Elric brothers. The youngest to death, and the eldest to hatred. Pinako knew how the mind worked; she wasn't ignorant in the least. Nevertheless, she couldn't lose Edward. Because she was cowardly. And selfish.

"Granny?" the child in her thoughts questioned. "You're not saying anything. Are you okay?"

She wanted to ask him the same. Affixing a sincere smile to her wrinkled lips, Pinako convinced him that she was perfectly alright, then mentioned the stew Winry had bubbling on the stove. By that time, the sun was low enough to graze the horizon and stain the sky a dazzling orange. The first stars were sparkling into existence in the west, and she knew Ed to be hungry. Yet still he shrugged stubbornly and refused to meet her eyes.

"I'll come home later," he said. "Promise."

"Edw—"

"Al can keep me safe!" Ed insisted, suddenly frantic at the notion that he might be forced home for dinner. "Really, he can! And I can run fine all on my own, Granny. My balance is a little off, but I haven't needed the crutch for almost two weeks!"

"Alright, bean," Pinako agreed mirthfully, ignoring his squawk of protest and his insistence that he was _not short_. "As long as you promise me something."

"I can really stay?" He sounded stunned, and slightly breathless.

"The promise, Edward," Pinako reminded him as she began the arduous task of getting to her feet. "I need you to do something for me, too."

Ed swivelled around to the empty space on the left of his mother's grave, and spoke to it, "Yeah, that's right!" He directed his brilliant grin back to Pinako. "It's just like equivalent exchange, Granny."

"Then you'll agree?"

Ed nodded.

Pinako let out a sigh of relief when she was once more upright. "Then I want you to promise that you'll always come to me when you need help."

"Like if I scratch Winry's automail," he asked, "and she finds out?"

"Anything," she assured him, and watched as a small frown creased his brow.

"That doesn't sound equivalent," he said carefully.

Pinako quirked an eyebrow. "Oh? Then I guess you just have to help _me_ with the gardening, too."

She left before his groaning complaints became too loud.

 **XxX**

"Do you think she's serious, Brother?" Al asked once Granny was a fair way down the road.

"About the gardening?" Ed grumbled, setting his chin in his palm and leaning forward. "Probably. And she knows I _hate_ gardening! The dirt gets caught in my hand and it's hard to get out." Gently, he flexed the automail in question. "It's stiff for _days_."

There came a series of loud creaks and screeches as Alphonse sat down, legs crossed in an imitation of his brother. Ed studied him, expression hardening as the armour let out a quiet chuckle.

"Not _that_ ," Alphonse laughed. "About the help thing."

Ed blew a strong puff of air through his nose, showing exactly what he thought of her offer. "I'd've done that anyway! Winry gets _way_ too mad about the little things. You know, just last week, she hit me over the head with one of her tools!"

"It was a wrench, brother."

"Whatever it was, it _hurt_. Do I have a bruise, Al?"

Al shook his head, making no effort to come any closer. "You made me check yesterday, Brother, and there wasn't anything there."

Ed huffed and rubbed at the offended area, a couple of inches above his right eye. "It _feels_ like a bruise," he muttered bitterly.

"That's because you keep touching it," his brother—always the voice of logic—pointed out, before rapidly changing the subject. "Why did we come here, brother? You know I hate it here."

Edward shrugged, hiding the twinge of guilt he felt upon remembering Al's aversion to the cemetery. "It was the first place I thought of."

"What about Rain River?" Alphonse suggested, almost as if he were nervous.

"Too cold this time of year." As if to accentuate his claim, a shiver racked through his body and he was forced to reach for the blanket that Granny had kindly forgotten. "My automail'll freeze and you'll have to carry me home," he joked. Alphonse had clearly stated, one week after obtaining his new body, that he didn't trust himself to carry Edward any longer. That horrific night—most of which Ed couldn't recall—was the first, and last, time that Al would do such a thing.

Al didn't reply. Ed followed the path of his younger brother's glowing eyes to where they settled on the empty gravestone.

"I hate that thing," Alphonse whispered, the steel in his arms creaking as they tightened their hold.

"Mm," Ed hummed in vague agreement, and reached forward to touch the stone's rough surface. "It's weird that it's still here. Shouldn't someone get rid of it? There's no one buried there."

That was true; the grassed ground was flat. Merely the headstone disturbed the landscape around the unmarked grave, which only increased the boys' suspicion. Ed withdrew his fingers with a shudder and pulled the blanket tighter around his shoulders, telling himself that the nausea pooling in his stomach was due to the plummeting temperature. Nothing else.

"Brother…" Al said softly, leaning in as if he were about to tuck a strand of hair behind Ed's ear. He paused at the last moment and moved away. "You're cold. Don't you wanna go back?"

Ed refused the suggestion. "It's barely been twenty minutes, Al. Winry would kill us."

"Wh-what?" Al sputtered. "Why me, too?

" _I_ don't understand how her mind works!" Ed countered defensively, turning his nose up in indignation. "She's a _girl_."

"But, Brother! You're gonna get sick!"

"I'm staying here," he insisted. "All night."

But it wasn't long before he sat down at the kitchen table, a warm bowl of steaming stew gently soothing his wounded pride. If only it could block out Al's snickers, as well.

 **XxX**

It was late that night when the phone rang.

The stars were out in full force, made brighter by the new moon and clear skies. The dishes from dinner were drying on the rack beside the sink, water dripping slowly, steadily. Edward was practically falling asleep where he lay on the lounge, grudgingly thankful that he hadn't stayed out all night, as had been the plan. Winry didn't react as violently as he had come to expect; she merely thrust her doll into his face and demanded that he fix her. A simple clap of the hands had dealt with that.

And so, when a shrill ring split the air, Edward fell straight to the floor in front of the fireplace, blinking in shock at the unplanned displacement. Winry giggled, though the action was tired, and voiced a few teasing insults that Ed didn't have the will to understand. He was tired, too.

That all changed, however, when Pinako seized the telephone and her expression stiffened into one that was all too recognisable.

The military was calling him.

Ed noticed the way his grandmother's lined face seemed to grow more lines, the way the corners of her eyes tightened almost unperceptively. Her gnarled hands tightened on the large handset, the knuckles turning white in her displeasure. He also noticed how her jaw clenched, spine straightened, and chin lifted in a display of defiance that was wasted over the phone. He noticed because he'd seen it all before.

So he held his breath, in the hope that she would forget all of her previous misgivings with the military, and allow him to speak. Just when he was beginning to feel lightheaded, Granny chanced a quick look at him and emphatically narrowed her eyes. Ed was to go to bed—at once, no questions asked. He let out his lungful of air in a loud gasp, earning another of Winry's giggles, and pretended that he didn't understand Pinako's request.

She turned back to the two children and waved them towards the bedrooms, muttering a hard, "I see," into the mouthpiece. Winry stood obediently, her expression one of wary curiosity. But Ed didn't react to her soft insistences that he come, too; he was straining to hear any of the Lt. Colonel's words. All that he could discern was a low voice.

Ed jumped slightly when Granny hurriedly covered the mouthpiece and hissed at him, " _Go_ to _bed_ , Edward! I'm not saying it again!"

"You didn't say it the first time," he retorted. Winry chose that moment to make her escape, leaving Ed alone. Even Al had decided to abandon his brother.

"I'm serious, Edward," Pinako continued, then she held up the phone. "I'm sorry, I'm going to have to call you back."

Ed's stomach dropped through the floor. No—she couldn't let the Lieutenant hang up before Ed had the chance to _talk_ to him! This was his future they were talking about! His and Al's! Before his mind caught up, Ed sprang over the back of the couch and snatched the telephone from his grandmother. She reached for him, and he ducked, sliding on the seat of his pants in the direction of the kitchen.

"Edward!"

"Hello?" he said breathlessly, the dark earpiece pressed tightly to the side of his head. "Hello, Lieutenant Colonel? Are you there?"

There were a few beats of silence before the other person replied uncertainly. "Is this Edward?"

Ed's face split in a grin even as he dodged around an armchair. "Yeah, it is. Are you calling about the exam? Because I'm ready now."

"Are you?" the deep voice chuckled. "And what does your grandmother think of that?"

"I don't think I should tell you what she thinks of you."

"Oh, really?" the Lt. Colonel said mirthfully. Ed heard a creak as the man leant back in his chair. It was barely audible, however, above the commotion in the Rockbell home.

Edward let out a strangled cry as strong arms wound around his chest, effectively holding him in place as Pinako wrestled the phone from his grasp. It all happened so fast—he barely had time to choke out a goodbye before it flew too far away. The coiled cord was wound all over the room—on chairs and the couch and even a doorknob, though Ed couldn't remember ever passing by that door. When Pinako released it, the black handset skidded far across the floor, as if to escape.

"Let me _go_ , you old hag!" Ed yelled, kicking his legs wildly in an effort to make contact with his captor. "I was talking!"

"I will _not_ let you go until you listen to reason, tiny brat!" Pinako dodged a liberated elbow and strengthened her grip. "Do you want that man to hear your meltdown? _Do_ you?"

"He wouldn't have to if you'd just _let me speak to him_!"

" _Do you_?"

"No!" Edward howled and sunk to the ground, his arm held high above his head. No matter what he tried, he couldn't get free. The first pricks of frustrated tears burnt in his eyes. "No, no, no, no, _no, no_!"

"Then what're you gonna do, Edward?"

Ed looked around frantically, searching for someone who wasn't there. "Al! _Al_!"

Pinako shook his thin arm, ignoring his panicked gasps for breath. " _What_ are you gonna do, Edward?"

"I'll go to my room!" he wailed, and began to claw at her fingers. "I'll go to my room and stay there 'till you say I can come out! I _promise_ , Granny! I _promise_!"

"Alright, then." She dropped him, and watched as he blinked up at her, dazed at the rapid change. "You'll go straight to your room, y'hear, pipsqueak? We'll talk about your punishment tomorrow."

Ed sat there, gaping, for several more seconds before the words pierced his brain. Once they had, he wasted no time in scrambling to his feet and flying down the hallway. But he didn't go straight to his room. He paused at the exact place where deep shadows would hide him from his grandmother's fading sight.

Edward watched as Granny pushed up her glasses to rub at the ridge of her nose, appearing deep in thought. She exhaled slowly and Ed felt a tug of guilt pulling him towards his punishment. It wasn't fair that he put so much pressure on her—but he couldn't help it! Al was the calm half of the Elric brothers; Granny and Winry didn't even notice him over Ed's selfish antics.

As Pinako shuffled over to the phone and carefully bent to reach it, Edward found it impossible to ignore the fatigue he hadn't seen before. It was his fault—he was far too much trouble for an elderly woman. Something similar to remorse settled heavily in his gut, and it was immediately too difficult to watch her struggle any longer—especially since she had asked him to leave.

Knowing that he wouldn't sleep at all, Ed turned towards his bed.

 **XxX**

"I'm sorry about that," Pinako began as soon as she picked up the phone. It had been such a battle to do that—she wanted nothing more than to yell down the line and throw it against the wall in her frustration. Damn that boy!

"Oh, no," the caller said calmly. Pinako's frown deepened in annoyance as she detected a note of amusement in the voice she hated so much. The voice that wanted to take her grandson away. "Think nothing of it. Shall we continue?"

"I don't see what there is to continue."

Lt. Colonel Mustang paused. "We were talking about Edward's future. If he should choose to pursue a career in the military, I am sure that he would be more than welcome."

"I've heard this before, Lieutenant Colonel," Pinako said, allowing an edge to creep into her voice. "And you've already heard my answer. I will not allow a twelve year old boy to go to war."

"There is no guarantee that Edward would be sent to war," Mustang replied sharply. "I can say with almost absolute certainty that he _will not_ be sent anywhere near the frontlines, should a conflict arise."

"Then surely there is no need for him to join." Pinako eased her weary body into the armchair by the fire, listening to the crackle of flames to calm herself. "Having a soldier who is unable to fight will be nothing but a liability to your team. I cannot believe that you have children of your own, Lieutenant Colonel, or you would know how much work they can be. Will you have a child parading through the streets of Central—alone?"

"With all respect, Mrs Rockbell, this is not your decision. It's up to Edward to—"

"It _is_ my decision!" Pinako exploded, leaping up from the chair in which she had only just become comfortable. "Edward has been my responsibility since his mother died, and he will continue to be so until he reaches adulthood! If you insist on bothering us with your idiotic ideas, I'll be forced to take up this matter with your superior, Mustang!"

There was a long bout of quiet. Pinako could hear the Lt. Colonel taking deep, steady, relaxing breaths, as if he were trying his hardest to stay civil. This mental image brought a cynical smile to her face; a vile satisfaction made her stand just a little taller. Just breaking such a composed man out of his composure filled her with pleasure. But his next question had her aged knees going weak.

"How will you tell Edward that you won't let him join?" the man asked, infuriatingly logical. "I'm not offering this purely for my own means, Mrs Rockbell. I need a strong alchemist on my team, and he needs the means to return his brother to his rightful state."

Pinako sat again and rubbed a palm over her forehead, withholding a large sigh. "Lieutenant Colonel," she began, trying to his her uncertainty. "In the hour and twenty minutes you spent intruding in my house, did you ever once see a walking suit of armour?"

Mustang remained silent, allowing Pinako to plead her next case.

"Edward… isn't healthy, Lieutenant Colonel. And I'm not talking about the automail surgery. Perhaps, if you one day return, I'll lead you to the spot where Alphonse is buried. Or I'll show you the suit of armour that Ed claims follows him around." She closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose to alleviate the pressure building in her head. "It hasn't moved one inch in over a decade—and it has _never_ moved on its own."

"So what you're saying," Mustang persisted, seemingly oblivious to his listener's open hostility, "Is that Edward should be… tested, to see if this is no more than a stubborn imaginary friend? Haven't you contacted any doctors?"

"Two so far." Her mouth settled in a thin, displeased line. "My granddaughter and I decided that method was doing more harm than good. I refuse to welcome another damn doctor in my home—even a bloody soldier would be preferable!"

"Then we appear to be at a standstill," the Lt. Colonel said with that previous, irritating amusement all too prominent. "Unless you would like to hear my proposition?"

Suddenly wary—and with good reason—the elderly woman directed her gaze at the fire crackling merrily behind its shield of perforated metal. An elegant floral pattern chased the edges, blacked by tongues of flame over the years. Staring at it brought back memories of working in her parents' shop, even before she was certain to carry on the Rockbell name. Back then, she had been content making art out of scraps. Now, she was trying to make a boy out of jagged pieces.

"I'll listen to it," Pinako yielded. Already she was thinking through a definite, clear refusal. One that Mustang would be sure to remember.

A slight chuckle filtered through the rough line. That bastard—was he laughing at her? Yet he sounded nothing but polite when he offered his suggestion.

"I will send one of my men."

Pinako waited a beat, to ascertain whether he was joking, and then she let out a loud laugh. Had Winry been in the room, she would have no doubt been staring up at her grandmother with wide, alarmed blue eyes. That girl was always so concerned, ever since her orphaning.

"I'm serious!" Mustang exclaimed as if he'd never once been laughed at.

"Oh, I'm sure you are!" Pinako assured him. "And that is what makes your idea so idiotic! Are you honestly so desperate?"

Without missing a breath, Mustang replied, "Yes."

"Then I worry about the state of our military."

" _Again_ ," he stressed, and Pinako fancied she could hear his teeth grind together, "This isn't just for me. I'll send someone who I feel is qualified, and he will give us _both_ reports on Edward's mental health."

"How can a _soldier_ judge a little boy's mental health?" she asked in mild offence.

"Is that a yes or a no, Mrs Rockbell?"


	2. Waver

**_ILLUSORY_**

 ** _There really isn't much information on Havoc, so him being a Warrant Officer is just a guess. If anyone knows his real rank at this time, please let me know :)_**

 ** _Thanks for reading!_**

 ** _CHAPTER TWO • Waver_**

Warrant Officer Jean Havoc jolted awake when the train lurched to a stop with the screeching of mistreated brakes. Blinking wearily, he stared at the tiny station outside his window, desperately trying to remember what he was doing on a train in the first place. It was to do with work, of that much he was sure. The Lieutenant Colonel had caught Jean as soon as he walked into the office; Jean knew from the moment he saw his superior officer's over-enthusiastic grin that he wouldn't like his next mission.

That's right. He was on a mission.

Quickly, before he forgot again, Havoc dug through his coat for his packet of cigarettes. There were two notes jotted on the side, beneath the inscription that declared his chosen brand to be, 'The best of the best!':

 _Edward Elric,_ and _Risembool_.

He was in Risembool. That was the first step—second if one counted boarding the train back in East City. Next, he would have to find the Rockbell household, and see if the entire situation really was as strange as Mustang claimed.

Oh, it had been far too long since Havoc had been to the country. Several months, he guessed. It felt much longer. The city was incredible, imposing, with its tall, dark buildings and paved roads, but it lacked that simple _purity_ that Jean had spent his entire childhood surrounded by. As he stepped onto the platform, he marvelled at the perfect azure of the sky, and wished that he some way of preserving that colour long enough to fix the skies of East City. He wished that the people of the city—all of the military men and women, the café owners, the street performers—would place flowers in _their_ windowsills, as the few inhabitants of Risembool had done. He wished that there was more of the country in the suburbs.

But, he decided wryly as he approached the large map on the shelter's wall, he didn't miss the inconvenience of so many farms in one place. It seemed, as he traced his finger over the protective glass, that the Rockbell home was ridiculously far from the station. Mustang must have known this when he sent Havoc, and yet the bastard never warned him to pack light. His suitcase was going to be a nuisance—it was certain.

Jean grimaced and turned away; no amount of inspection would shorten the distance to his destination. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn't change that. The station was almost empty when he finally started the long trek to Rockbell Automail. At the very least, he wanted to get there before nightfall.

It was already midday.

 **XxX**

Ten more minutes, Havoc promised himself. Ten more minutes and he'd turn back. He would return to the station an hour or so after sunset, and ask someone for directions the next morning. With his luck, it was dishearteningly likely that he had missed the turn-off several kilometres ago, when the sun was higher in the sky and his luggage didn't weigh a _tonne_.

Grumbling as he stumbled over yet another misplaced rock, the disgruntled soldier fished around the inside of his jacket for his second box of cigarettes. The first one was already finished; he would be in trouble if the assignment continued for too long.

No. He shook his head to clear it of the excess negativity. It was just a simple mission: find the candidate, and convince him to go. It wouldn't be difficult. It _couldn't_ be difficult.

Yet he let out a heavy sigh nonetheless.

It was at that point that he lifted his gaze from the uneven road, running it through the lush grass, tracing the gnarled trees… settling on the old woman and the cemetery she guarded. For a moment, Havoc's steps faltered, and he had to consciously remind himself to _lift_ his foot and bring it back down.

As he came closer, her head tilted upwards and she folded her arms. Disapproval seemed to _bleed_ from her stiff posture, her tight mouth, her creased brow.

"Mustang's friend," she stated as he approached. "I presume."

Havoc gave a small laugh and fought against rubbing the back of his neck—a nervous tick he just couldn't drop. "That's me, ma'am. Warrant Officer Jean Havoc."

"Well, Warrant Officer—" her expression soured even more as she said his title, "—here, you will be going as Jean, d'you hear? If you really _must_ stay, there will be no talk of the military." She waited for his nod of agreement before offering her hand. "Pinako Rockbell. I'm Edward's guardian."

"Guardian?"

"Edward's only twelve." Pinako's face softened into something that resembled smugness as she said, "Your superior didn't mention that, did he? You're here to brainwash a child, Jean Havoc." Her mouth twitched upwards, but there was nothing friendly in the gesture. "Now follow me, and you'll get to meet him. I wish you luck; he doesn't take too kindly to strangers."

 **XxX**

It felt as if the day would never end.

The journey from the cemetery to Rockbell Automail wasn't long in terms of distance—but that entire distance was covered in silence. Whenever a question breached Havoc's mind, he would open his mouth to ask, then immediately close it upon further consideration. The Lt. Colonel had advised him to go into the situation as 'unbiased as possible'. That bastard. Jean was sure that the man simply didn't wish to help. It was out of his interests, apparently.

Or… perhaps the Lt. Colonel was as clueless as his subordinate.

"This is it," Pinako broke the quiet just as the sun tentatively stroked the horizon. "Rockbell Automail."

Havoc quickly inspected the double storey house in the fading light, tossing his guide a nervous grin. It was at the end of a wide path, bordered on one side by a stone wall. The lights were on in the lower half of the home, but the upper remained dark beyond its sturdy balcony. As he watched, a young boy threw open the front door, chattering happily and punctuating his exclamations with wild gestures.

"That's Edward," Pinako said, then urged Havoc forward with her cane. "And his younger brother, Alphonse."

"But…" Havoc squinted at the child, worrying that his eyesight was fading, as he could only see one boy. Perplexed, he turned to his elderly escort. She was smirking, and seemed oddly pleased.

"Good luck having him pass the mental examination, soldier."

"I get the feeling you don't want him joining us, ma'am," Havoc remarked dryly as he placed another smoke between his lips. Edward was still now, staring at the Warrant Officer and whispering harshly to empty space. An unknown sensation numbed Havoc's fingers so that he fumbled with the lighter.

"I don't," she stated simply. "I thought I'd made that clear earlier. But…" Jean didn't dare glance over as her voice softened into something unrecognisable. "If there's any way to help him, we'll do it."

Jean found that he could do no more than offer a nod; anything he might have said had to be silenced as the boy came into earshot, barrelling down the path to his grandmother's side.

"Granny?" he questioned, inflicting Havoc with large, wary golden eyes. His tiny fist wound itself deep in Pinako's stained apron, almost as if he thought he could offer her protection. "Who's this? I don't want another doctor."

Pinako shook her head and gently rubbed at a dirty mark on Edward's forehead. "He's not a doctor, Edward. We promised no more doctors, didn't we? This is Jean Havoc, a friend of the family. You'll be polite to him, understand?"

Edward huffed and pressed himself further into her shoulder, allowing his penetrating gaze to leave Havoc for a relief-filled second. Then he snorted, " _You_ can, Al."

" _Ed_."

"Fine, Granny!" he griped, leaving her side as quickly as he had joined it. "I'll be polite." Seemingly reluctant, he held out his left hand for Havoc to shake. But instead of introducing himself—as Jean may have expected—the unpredictable child blurted out, "Al wants me to tell you that smoking will make all your fingers and toes drop off."

Pinako just gave a quiet growl before grasping her grandson by his upper arm and tugging him towards the house, abandoning a startled Havoc without a second thought. As the soldier once again picked up his luggage, he smiled at the conversation occurring up ahead.

"But he didn't _answer_ , Granny!" Edward was whining. "What if he doesn't _know_? He—he could lose _all_ his fingers and toes, Granny! … Exactly, Al! See, Granny? At least _Al_ is worried about the guest!"

But the guest wasn't worried at all. Not about the smoking—no, that was only the equivalent of a sub-heading in his mental report. The real title was much less threatening. It was almost comforting in its normality; Mustang had been wrong to send him so far in order to gather such benign information. In his first letter to his superior, due to be written that evening, Jean would gleefully write:

 _Young boy has imaginary friend._

Yes. That summed it up quite nicely. Edward Elric had an imaginary friend—a phenomenon not uncommon in children. It wasn't detrimental to his health, and would surely vanish by the time Ed sat his State Alchemist exams. The two weeks Havoc was required to spend in Risembool would go past in a flash!

 **XxX**

Dinner was a strangely silent affair.

Edward cast nervous eyes across the table, catching the uncomfortable gaze of his childhood friend before she quickly returned them to her meal. It was pasta, smothered in some type of tomato sauce, and it suddenly became incredibly interesting.

Al clanked, somewhere near the oven, and Ed froze, shooting a quick glance up at Pinako. But she didn't react. The frown that had both him and Winry cowering in their seats—and Al cowering beside the stove—didn't rise and settle on him. It rested firmly on her meal, only occasionally redirecting to their _guest_.

Edward felt sorry for him.

The man was understandably uneasy. Though Winry had piled his plate high, Havoc had barely touched it. Ed watched him out of his peripheral vision, but soon lost interest; all he did was move the pasta around, never once lifting the fork. That was a shame—Winry's food was really good, in Edward's opinion. And if he said it, she made more, so he made sure to say it often.

"How…" Ed's head shot up in surprise when Winry dared to speak, shaking his head in warning. "How long are you staying here… Mr Havoc?"

Edward stilled when Pinako sent him a sharp glare, a message to stop moving _instantly_. He did, immediately returning his attention to the pasta on his plate. Even though it had sat before him for almost half an hour, it was the warmest thing in that room.

Jean cleared his throat before offering Winry a small, uncomfortable smile. "I, um… Two weeks."

"Then where are you going?" Winry asked, dutifully ignoring both Pinako's admonishment and Ed's incredulity.

Havoc let out a slight chuckle and pushed his food around a bit more. "I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"Winry, that's enough," Pinako warned quietly. "Why don't you clear the plates?"

Winry fixed her grandmother with a confused blue stare. "But nobody's finished!"

"I don't think anyone's hungry, dear." The old woman slid her plate across the table. "Edward will help you clean up."

For once, Ed didn't argue. If Granny wanted them to wash the dishes, it meant she had _something_ to say to their visitor. More importantly, it meant she was leaving, and that awful, heavy atmosphere would leave with her. Suddenly, Edward couldn't collect the plates fast enough.

Al's joints screeched as he clambered to his feet, having to stoop slightly to avoid the ceiling light. Edward weaved around him and ducked beneath his brother's metal elbow. Already, Winry had the tap turned to full, sending the old pipes into a panic and filling the kitchen with their howls.

" _Winry_ ," Ed gently shouldered her out of the way in order to place his unfinished meal beside the sink. A bottle of neglected dishwashing detergent sat beside their small window, partially stuck to the bench. "You forgot the soap _again_ , bubble-head."

The young girl's mouth gaped open in shock at the insult, then her face screwed up and a pink tongue stretched dangerously close to Ed's nose. "I'm _not_ a bubble-head, stupid!"

Edward ignored her jab at his intelligence, resolving instead to offer a tiny chuckle. It was sure to aggravate her. "I bet your head is even more emptier than _Al's_."

There was a rattle behind him, and then Alphonse's annoyed, "That was uncalled-for, Brother. My head's not empty, either."

"Well…" Ed poured a good half of the detergent into the sink, delighting in the foam that resulted. With his job complete, he twisted until Al was only just visible in the corner of his eye. " _Technically_ , it is."

"Edward."

The boy in question flinched guiltily at the sound of his grandmother's voice, having believed her to be out of the room. "… Yeah, Granny?"

"Leave Winry alone and boil some water for tea," Pinako demanded with a warning in her gaze that was impossible to ignore. Ed felt his throat go dry, and he wondered if her bad mood would persist for the entire two weeks of Havoc's stay. "Mr Havoc and I will be on the top balcony, understand?"

Ed nodded mutely and hurried over to the stove.

Pinako stared at him for several long seconds; her attention raised goose bumps all over his arms. "Be careful with that water, y'hear?"

"I will."

"Good," she said with finality. Soon after, her heavy footsteps moved down the hall.

When the coast was clear, Edward frantically turned to his childhood friend. "I'll do the dishes if you take the tea up to her!"

"Nope."

"What if I do them tomorrow night, too?"

Winry shook her head, grinning in cruel victory.

"A _week!_ " Ed tried in one last effort. When Winry once again refused, he spun to scowl at his innocent, giggling brother. "Oh, _shut up_ , Al!"

"You'd better hurry up," Winry sang teasingly. "Or she's gonna be _mad_."

"She's already mad," Edward grumbled as he nudged her aside to fill their orange kettle. Winry let out one more giggle before falling silent, soapy water embracing her elbows and slopping down the front of her dress. She paid the mess no mind, even as it dripped onto the floor and spread in a small puddle. Edward stared at it once he'd successfully placed the kettle over the flame to boil, one eyebrow raised in question of how long it would take his companion to realise her socks were getting wet.

Winry glanced up to see him staring, and immediately grew a scowl. "Have you got the tealeaves yet?"

"Oh." Ed broke out of his stupor in an instant and rushed over to the cupboard. The tealeaves were kept in the back—out of his reach until the last month—so he took great pride in grabbing the ceramic pot himself. Now Al couldn't laugh at him.

Winry snorted at his proud expression. A trail of bubbles glistened below her eye; it was a wonder Pinako let her do the dishes on her own. Everything around her seemed to be soaked, or extremely lucky. Even the drying towels were dripping.

By the time he had set out two matching mugs, the kettle was whistling furiously. Steam poured out the spout in an angry white line, distorting when Edward lifted it off the heat. It was at times like this that the boy was thankful for his automail; he didn't need to worry about the temperature of the metal handle, because he couldn't feel it.

Setting the kettle down on a cool element, Ed pried the lid off of the pot and started coughing at the pungent smell of the tea. He'd never liked it. "Winry," he said in a bit of a whine. "Are you _sure_ we can't swap?"

"I'm not swapping."

"But…" As the tealeaves soaked in the cooling water, Ed scrambled for any excuse to stay downstairs. "But my automail's all shaky, Win. I'll drop the tea."

Edward saw her roll her eyes in her reflection in the window. "My automail doesn't get shaky, Ed." She turned to send him a quick glare. "Stop being such a baby."

It was too late. The tea was ready, regardless of Ed's own trepidation. "I don't wanna, Winry!" he groaned, but placed the mugs on a tray anyway.

 **XxX**

"I'm sure you've noticed all of his injuries," Pinako said bluntly, after spending more than two minutes in complete silence. Havoc had grown accustomed to the sound of his own breathing and that of the last birds falling asleep, but there was no way that he would admit to being startled by an old woman the size of a pea.

"I have."

"Good. I'd be worried about the future of our military if they weren't able to see a black eye on a twelve-year-old boy. That sort of thing isn't normal—especially not here. Before you ask, Mr Havoc," Pinako held up a hand to cut him off, "Let me assure you that Winry and I have nothing to do with it. We're not sure how they appear."

Havoc stared at the lush fields, turned a deep blue in the twilight. It had been a long time since such a view had greeted him. "Have you asked Edward?"

"Of course," she replied with disdain. "That was the first thing we tried."

"Then what did he say?"

"He said it was his brother."

Jean cocked an eyebrow and began rooting around his jacket for a cigarette. He needed one. "There isn't a third brother that they forgot to put on his file, is there?"

"No," she responded flatly, also bringing her pipe up to her mouth for a deep breath. "And I must say I'm a little… _perturbed_ that you have a file about my grandson. All going well, he won't ever set foot in a military compound. To have a file at _twelve_ seems a bit…"

"Necessary," Havoc insisted. "Even if Edward won't be accepted into the military after all this, he's obviously done _something_ to earn the Lieutenant Colonel's interest."

Pinako huffed out a small laugh—one lacking in humour and blessed in bitterness. But she didn't speak.

Havoc let the smoke out of his lungs in a long, controlled motion, before casting a sidewards glance at his smoking partner. "You wouldn't be able to tell me what Edward did, would you?"

"No," Pinako spoke sharply, with no hint of uncertainty. "That's out of the question. If you really wanna know, ask the boy yourself. I'm not here to make your job easier, soldier."

Jean laughed slightly. "That's a shame, ma'am."

"Just behave yourself," she commanded as heavy footsteps—one metal and one flesh—tried their best to quieten on approach. Havoc fancied he saw a tiny smile on her wrinkled lips, perhaps born from her grandson's futile efforts. "You can come out, Edward."

The boy stepped out almost hesitantly, the two plain mugs on his tray rattling alarmingly. And the Lt. Colonel wanted _this kid_ on his team? He could barely stand up to his grandmother!

But as Edward looked up, meeting his eyes boldly, Jean felt a smile of his own tug on his lips. The child wasn't hesitant; he wasn't scared in the least. There shone a bright curiosity on Ed's face, carefully masked against the stranger who was invading his home, and yet simultaneously fixated on him. Edward wore his thoughts on his sleeve; they were easy to see.

"Edward?" The old woman quickly crossed the balcony to take the tray and place it on the ground beside her. "Why are you shaking? Do you feel cold?"

"No, Granny. I'm not sick."

"Are you lying to me, Ed?"

"No."

"But you were shaki…"

As Pinako's voice faded into what could only be considered dumbfounded silence, Havoc crept up behind her to see whatever was so interesting it halted such an intelligent woman in her tracks. Everything appeared fine. There was no flush on Ed's cheeks, his posture was straight as a ruler, and even that strange antenna atop his head was sound. Even if a fever was just starting, there would be _some_ sign.

"Is there—" Jean began, only to be cut off by a frustrated growl.

"Edward." Pinako ground out through gritted teeth. "What the _hell_ happened to your hand?"

The child gaped up at her with wide, unblinking eyes. "Granny, did you just say—"

"No questions, Edward!" she barked. "Not until you tell me what happened! Why's it burnt?"

"… Are you okay, Granny?"

"Of course I'm bloody well okay! Havoc!"

The man's arm twitched violently as he suppressed a salute. "Yes?"

"Go ask Winry for the medical bag. There should be one in the kitchen, but if not tell her to use one from the surgical rooms. Quickly!"

"Granny, I—"

"Wait, no—come back, Havoc." Pinako roughly threw Edward's injured arm into Jean's grasp, and fixed him with a deadly stare. "You stay here with him. Make sure he doesn't do anything stupid, understand?"

The soldier nodded, running his orders through his head. Ed grumbled below him—most probably about the strange, elevated position of his elbow. It was above his head, the hand dangling loosely, like a marionette with the strings cut. The way that he scowled at his grandmother's retreating back, yet made no move to disobey, gave Havoc a grudging respect for the grouchy woman.

Once Pinako was gone, however, that scowl shifted upwards, and Havoc found himself under the full focus of its scrutiny. Military training had nothing on this; only his experience with children allowed him to force a grin.

"So…" he tried, kneeling to look Ed in the angry, golden eye. Any military talk was off-limits, leaving him with very little to say. "You're Edward, are you?"

The boy's brows dropped further, almost meeting in the middle in his displeasure. "Just Ed."

"Alright, Ed." Jean came close to offering a handshake, but instead settled for dropping the one already in his grip. "If we're shortening names, you can call me Havoc."

"Okay."

Havoc nodded in acknowledgement of Ed's acknowledgement, before pointing at the injured palm. "Why don't you tell me what happened there, Ed?"

Ed's scowl reappeared. "Because _nothing_ happened."

"Something obviously _did_ happen," Jean said as he gently grabbed Ed's hand, palm up, and presented the burn to them both. "Look at that."

"What?" Edward pulled away and, after a slight pause, started to study the injury. He turned it in all angles, held it up to the light, squinted, but nevertheless seemed genuinely baffled when he next spoke. "Is there a scratch on my automail?" He frowned at it again. "I can't see a scratch."

Jean blinked, stunned. "You—"

"Granny said you did something to your hand!" Winry interrupted him accidentally. She was stepping onto the balcony, a damp towel over her shoulder and drying bubbles in her hair. A mocking smirk flickered on her young lips. "What's the problem?"

"It's _nothing_ ," Ed yelled in exasperation, dragging his healthy fingers through his hair. "The gears are stiff—that's all, Winry!"

Jean raised an eyebrow while the girl just snorted. "Gears," she muttered. "Whatever you want, Ed. Sit down."

Ed merely crossed his arms and stuck out his lower lip. His gaze flicked up, and he appeared to be listening intently—to _something_ —then he rolled his eyes and sighed. " _Fine_."

"Listen to Winry, Edward," Pinako snapped as she bustled through the door and pushed him into a metal seat overlooking their darkened view. Havoc retreated, staying out of their way, without going so far as to miss any of their conversation. "You know better than to do this; you're not five anymore!"

"Hot things _burn_ , stupid."

"Winry, that's not helping. Get me the ointment."

"Granny!" Ed whined, tapping an erratic, distressed beat on the ground with his feet. "Granny, you're getting gunk in my automail! _Stop_!" He tried—in vain—to pull away. "It's gonna be all sticky and—"

"Shut up, squirt."

There was a breath of calm—a breath in which everyone seemed to freeze—then, " _Who're you calling squirt_!?"

Havoc fancied he saw a smirk on Pinako's wizened mouth, but the next moment it was hidden. She spoke bluntly, "You, runt."

Ed's jaw worked furiously, as if he were talking but nothing would come out, and his eyes bulged out of his head. Winry merely giggled, while Jean pressed his lips together to quell his laughter. It would do him no favours if the kid hated him from the first day.

Winry passed Pinako a roll of bandages, Ed's attention switched from his previous indignation to the current unjustified predicament he was unable to escape. The boy slumped down in the seat in an attempt to fall, but Pinako's hold on his wrist never loosened. He let out a little moan, as if her touch was painful, but she simply pressed firmer on the protective padding and told Winry to, "Hold this." Edward, seeing that all of his weak endeavours would get his nowhere, resorted once more to high-pitched verbal complaints.

"I don't see why I _need_ this, Granny," he groaned, sagging in exhaustion. "I can't _feel_ it, and-and you of all people should know metal can't be burnt!"

Jean raised an eyebrow and leant further against the balcony rail. The cigarette in his mouth was dangerously close to being finished, but he made no attempt to take it out. Briefly, his mind focused on the tray of tea going cold on the ground by the open doorway, and he marvelled that no one had kicked it over yet. If anyone accused him of being subject to distraction, he would counter their claim with the excuse of being aware of his surroundings. There was a difference, he was sure.

The old woman, when he looked back up, was deftly wrapping gauze around Ed's injury, seemingly deaf to his protests. When the glint of an automail foot captured Havoc's notice, he realised that this was definitely not the first time Edward had received Pinako's special brand of treatment.

"There," Pinako said, her voice carefully stern, once the wound was treated. Winry knelt beside her to pack away the first aid kit—she was an expert in medical care at the age of twelve. "Now you listen to me, Edward. No getting this wet, no lifting up the edges, and _definitely_ no taking this off. Understand?"

Edward brought his wrapped hand up to his face and tried to make a fist. The bandages—and no doubt the stiffness of the burn—allowed him as far as an inch or so, but the tips of his fingers were not able to curl into his palm. He groaned and threw his head back. "It's _useless_ now, Granny. What's the point of a new hand if I can't even _move it_?"

Edward continued to grumble for as long as it took Pinako to usher him into his bedroom and shut the door behind him. At that point, Havoc was well onto his third cigarette, and wondering where all of his expertise with children would help in Ed's case. Though he was unwilling to pass judgment so soon, he had to question why Mustang thought letting a _child_ onto their team was a good idea.

It didn't seem so to him.

 **XxX**

 _12_ _th_ _June 1911 — Day 1 at Rockbell Residence_

 _Well here's my journal, sir. There really isn't much to write. I've been here for about five hours—it's nearing midnight right now—and Edward hasn't said much. His grandmother, Mrs Pinako Rockbell, is just as…_ protective _as you warned me. She met me on the road, Lt. Colonel, just to tell me the 'rules' of my stay. But I understand that isn't what you want from me, so I'll get right to the point._

 _Edward is much more independent than the boy you met. He is able to walk with little difficultly, from what I've seen; the automail doesn't affect his ability to walk or run—again, as far as I can tell from my five hours of experience. Physically, he appears sound. With a few more months of recovery, I believe he would be back to full health. Mentally, however… I'm not sure, sir. I need more time._

 _When I first saw Edward, he was talking to himself. I don't mean babbling, sir, he seemed quite lucid. It was more like he was talking to someone we couldn't see. Of course, my first thought was that he had an imaginary friend. That's normal, right? Edward's a bit old, but after all he went through, it's a plausible theory. I really hope that's the case, Mustang, but I'm not sure anymore. There's a large burn on Edward's palm—and he can't feel it at all. Mrs Rockbell was hesitant, but she eventually told me that Edward believes his arm to be automail, just like his leg, and that he believes he lost that arm saving his brother. His imaginary friend. I wouldn't be bothered, sir, or be bothering you with such trivial detail, yet I can't convince myself to leave this out. This may be what Mrs Rockbell meant, telling you Edward wasn't fit for duty. I really wish you had given me more information before shipping me out here, you bastard. I'm not sure I'm the right person for this job._

 _Perhaps tomorrow's entry will be different. Maybe I'll have some facts tomorrow. I certainly hope so—guessing games aren't my strength, Lt. Colonel, and you know that._

 _Until next time._

 _P.S. Did you know that smoking causes your fingers and toes to fall off? Ed told me._


	3. Uncharacteristic

**_ILLUSORY_**

 ** _Sorry for the wait! Hope you enjoy this chapter._**

 ** _CHAPTER THREE • Uncharacteristic_**

He looked nervous. Much more than the night before—especially when compared to how Edward had first greeted Havoc with what Pinako assumed to be enthusiasm. But perhaps he had decided, overnight, that a stranger in his routine was not something to be welcomed? Now Pinako felt the first stirrings of anxiety, like a parasitic being shuddering to life within her stomach. Just like the doctors, she _knew_ this was not a good idea.

But what else could she do? If Edward ever found out that she had destroyed his ambition, he would estrange himself from her and chase his goal regardless. Wasn't this the best way?

Still, the parasite gnawed on her gut.

At least she wasn't being pressured to eat, as no one seemed to own an appetite. Even Edward had only inhaled one plate, and the pace was so subdued to be almost _civilised!_ If asked, Pinako would have said that was the first warning.

The second was the small, covert glances that Edward was sending at their visitor. Once she noticed, Pinako's flicker of anxiety caught flame, tearing up into her throat and causing her breath to catch. _Did he know?_ Did Edward _know_ that Jean Havoc was military? He must have at least _suspected_ it! Her grandson was no idiot—that was for sure. How could he be oblivious to the presence of a soldier at his breakfast table?

But no. The fire burnt away her fears just as it had created them, then subsided graciously. Edward was not watching Havoc because he was trying to emulate him, to learn his behaviours, but to build an opinion. He was a young boy presented with an unknown adult for unknown reasons—it was natural for him to be wary, or even cautious, of a strange man. Heaven knows he had very little experience with father figures.

"Granny?" he asked quietly, startling his grandmother out of her thoughts. "Where's Winry?"

"Upstairs, Edward."

"Has she had breakfast?"

"I don't know. Why don't you go ask her?"

It was only after the request that Pinako realised she had condemned herself to a suffocating breakfast with an uncomfortable soldier. How wonderful.

 **XxX**

Edward _was_ uncomfortable. Even though their guest's gaze remained fixed on his own breakfast, Ed knew the Jean's attention was on _him_. It was heavy and searching, making goosebumps appear up and down his arms from the intensity. His seat felt too hard, the toast felt too dry in his mouth, the eggs felt like the river slime he used to sling at Alphonse. It was terrible.

So when the opportunity arose, he jumped on it. Quite literally. He sprung off his chair with such vigour it clattered to the floor and he had to run back to fix it. But nothing would stop him, and within the second he was bounding up the stairs and down the hallway. Al clanked after him, having to maintain a slower pace, and calling for Ed to _slow down, Brother!_

Winry let out a growl of frustration as Edward burst through the door, disrupting her delicate work. It was a familiar routine, though not one that she had any love for. He knew just which buttons to press, or rather, screws to loosen, to bring her temper to the surface.

"Watch it, idiot!" she warned as Ed walked in and made himself at home on her bed. He bounced up and down on it on his back, as if it were designed for that purpose exactly. The boy couldn't help but notice his childhood friend's irritation. This was much better than that stuffy breakfast had been, even if there wasn't any food.

"Morning, Winry," he greeted just as she opened her mouth for an explanation of his presence. "Have you eaten yet?"

Winry huffed through her nose and returned her attention to the piece of machinery in front of her. "Give me a few minutes."

"Yeah, exactly."

"Huh?"

Ed rolled onto his side and fixed her with a mirthful gaze. "Al said that you shouldn't hurry—that man's still here."

Winry cocked an eyebrow. "What do you have against Mr Havoc?"

"Nothing." Ed shrugged. "I dunno. Al says we shouldn't trust him. He's new; we don't know anything about him yet."

"And you decided this overnight?" Winry rolled her eyes—though the gesture was lost beneath her magnifying goggles—and picked up a rag to wipe her hands on. "I thought you liked him. He _did_ help with your hand."

Ed, reminded of his unjust bandaging, scowled. "I _do_ think he's okay, but we've only known him for less than a day! Besides, Al says he doesn't like him. You know how great a judge of character Al is!"

Winry shoved the heel of her palm into her eyes and made a low noise of annoyance. "This is _just_ like the doctor!"

"How is this like the doctor?" Ed cried in indignation. He sat up straight on the bed.

"You were _just like this_ when those doctors came!" she accused. "Meeting new people won't kill you, Ed! They were trying to _help!_ "

Ed parted his lips to form a word, but before they could, his head whipped around to the door, almost in surprise. His mouth fell open and brows rose, then he spun towards Winry and those brows dropped menacingly. " _He's_ not another doctor, is he?"

" _Gosh,_ Ed!" Winry lurched to her feet, pointing at the door. "Either stop being so _paranoid,_ or leave me alone!"

"But Granny sent me!"

"I don't care, just—"

" _What's going on in here?_ " The door flew open so quickly it slammed against the opposite wall. Pinako stood in the gap, all four feet of her, and it was enough for both children to shut up and shrink back. Her glasses seemed to flash.

"Granny," Winry started. "Ed—"

"No, don't!" Pinako held up a finger to silence them. "I don't wanna hear it. I don't wanna hear _anything_ from you two. Is that understood? All you've done since Mr Havoc arrived is bicker and argue and I'm sick of it. It's only been half a day! Is this really the impression you want to give? Edward?"

Ed flinched under her scrutiny and shook his head. He couldn't lift his gaze from the ground.

"Winry?"

The girl also gave the floor an excessive amount of attention. "It wasn't my fault," she muttered bitterly, her voice gaining strength when Pinako didn't reprimand her. "It was fine until Ed came in."

"That doesn't matter." Pinako pointed to the hallway. "Edward, I want you to leave Winry alone. Winry, you need to eat. It's almost ten and all the food's cold now.

Winry trekked off immediately, pointedly ignoring the intruder in her bedroom. The intruder didn't move. Neither did his adopted grandmother. As Winry's footsteps grew fainter, Edward's scowl deepened. Al stood off to the side of the room with his metal arms crossed and glowing eyes narrowed in defiance. "That's not fair," Ed heard him say. "She called us paranoid. All you wanted was to ask if she'd had breakfast."

Ed nodded at his brother's indignation. "I know. It's stupid."

"It's time to get out, Edward," Pinako warned, and though her voice was kinder, the tone increased Ed's frustration. He didn't want her to be gentle, damn it! It was too hard to be mad at her!

Al's armour creaked as he turned towards the bed where Edward was still seated. "If you want her to be mad," he advised, "Just make her mad."

 **XxX**

Havoc found him just where she'd said—in the graveyard in front of his brother's grave. As he approached, the writing on a second headstone a metre away from the boy became visible. _Trisha Elric._ Her son was buried not four feet away, and not six years later. The family was all together—some above the ground and some below—and it couldn't have been a more horrific reunion. Horrific because Pinako had warned Havoc about the armoured Alphonse that crouched, invisible and imagined, at Edward's side. Could the illusion see the inscription on his own grave?

Ed couldn't. When Havoc's shadow fell on the words, they became darker and somehow menacing in the mid-morning light. _Alphonse Elric 1900-1910._ Ten years. The pitiful number made the soldier's gut twist. In his profession, it wasn't unusual to see death—but everyone knew what they were getting into when they signed those official military documents, and none were as young as ten! Havoc though he was deserved his nausea.

Edward's back stiffened, his shoulders drawing into himself and his knees pressing tighter against his chest. He was curled up, hunched over, like a child that knew he was going to be disciplined. In Havoc's childhood, that meant a harsh slap or even—if his crime was particularly terrible—his father's belt. But Jean hesitated to do either. He wanted to earn Edward's trust, so that he might just discover why Pinako was so bothered by his imaginary friend. He needed to know more about Alphonse, the steel giant. He needed to talk to Ed. But how, when simply his shadow caused him to seize up?

Deciding it was the safest approach, Havoc sat. The grass was slightly damp in spite of the pleasant sun, and its chill seeped through the seat of his jeans. He wasn't welcome; one glance at Edward's stony face told him so.

"What're you doing here?" he asked. His face barely moved. His eyes didn't wander from his brother's name.

Havoc drew his knees up so that he could balance his elbows on them, allowing his lower arms to flop lazily. He, like Edward, stared at the writing. "Pinako sent me. She told me what you did."

Ed's expression tightened in anger. "It wasn't my fault," he muttered, starting to pull at the grass. "It wasn't my idea. I always get blamed."

"You spilt Winry's bolts all over the floor." Havoc allowed himself a small smile—one that he knew Ed wouldn't see.

"It wasn't my idea," he persisted, as if the idea, and not the act, was what determined guilt. "I told you that. But Granny always gets mad at me."

"Who else would she be mad at?" Havoc dared to ask.

"Al. But he _never_ gets in trouble. What?" His glare shot over to the left, away from Jean. "It's true!"

Havoc looked to the same space as Ed, but was unable to see the younger brother. It was a tiny hope—a minuscule hope—that he held; that Alphonse would actually be standing there, shining in the morning light, and arguing with his disagreeable sibling. But… the armour was just an imaginary friend, right? An imaginary brother? Why was Havoc's disappointment so great when Edward _proved_ his delusion once again? Perhaps he was hoping that Ed would hide, at least subconsciously, his strange ties to his childhood. It would be difficult to accept a child in the military; accepting a child who still held an imaginary friend would be harder.

Yes, that must have been the problem. It couldn't possibly be anything else.

"Why doesn't Al get in trouble, Ed?" Havoc inquired, simply for the sake of conversation. After less than a day in the Rockbell household, he had decided that the idea of Alphonse made him uncomfortable. A ten-year-old boy encased in steel? The mere thought that Edward had created such a morbid continuation of his brother's life caused Jean's stomach to roil.

"Because!" Ed offered in way of explanation. "No one ever believes me when I say he wanted me to do it." At that revelation, he paused, and returned his state to the gravestone. His expression, and his voice, sounded both guilty and sorrowful when he said, "But he's changed since… there was an accident. It's why he's in the armour. He's different."

Havoc had to restrain himself—he wanted to lean forward in interest, like a good dog at the scent of some delicious morsel. In this case, the morsel was whatever information Ed was willing to offer. "Different how?"

Ed flinched at the question and seemed to shrink away. "I don't wanna say."

"Will Alphonse tell me?"

"He doesn't wanna say, either." Ed licked his lips nervously and rubbed at his arms as if caught by a chill. "He says we shouldn't—I-I mean, we don't know you. Why're you being so nosy?"

Havoc raised an eyebrow and started rooting around in his jacket for a cigarette. "You want to know me?" Finding it, he placed his prize between his lips. "I'll tell you. I'm Jean Havoc, twenty-one, and a farmer. Lived in the east my whole life, and just recently came through here to learn more about our country."

Ed looked up at him dubiously. "That's pretty generic," he said, forcing Havoc to grin around his unlit cigarette. "You barely told us anything about you."

"That's because I'm not interesting," he attempted to deflect the question.

But Ed continued to stare at him with that same displeased mistrust. "Mother told us everyone has a story."

"I have plenty of stories," Havoc countered. He searched his pockets, almost frantically, for his lighter. This conversation was drifting off-course and he needed to relax. "Just none suitable for children."

"I'm not a child!" Ed snapped.

Havoc took a deep breath of his cigarette. "Then maybe I'll tell you some later. How good are you at cards?"

Ed's face crinkled in curiosity. "Cards?"

"Come on." Havoc drew a packet out and placed it on the ground in front of them. "Al can play, too. Wanna try 'Bullshit'?"

Ed watched him carefully for a few long moments, carefully scanning him until Havoc felt it was _he_ being considered for the military. He didn't notice his mistake until Ed—loud little twelve-year-old Ed—carefully, tentatively, tried out the new word. "Bull… shit?" It sounded odd and uncertain, and soon after Edward turned towards his brother for confirmation that he had accurately copied the curse.

Havoc laughed nervously once his blunder had been uncovered. "Hey, uh… How 'bout we just stick to 'Cheat', huh?"

"Is it much harder?" Edward asked reluctantly; he didn't seem to understand.

The soldier shook his head briefly. "It's the same game. But we need three players for this to work. Are you sure Al won't play?"

"He doesn't like things like this." His lower lip stuck out just the slightest amount as he glared at empty space. "He can't hold things like that properly."

It was then that Havoc decided the glare was not intended for him—neither was it for his imaginary friend, or the deck of cards lying on the grass between them. His anger seemed to have no source, or at least, none that was visible. None that was apparent.

Ed looked down. "Can we…" he trailed off, then his expression sharpened into an unreadable determination. "Do we really need three players? 'Cause I'm sure that… Al? Will you play?"

Havoc waited patiently while Edward quietly argued, insisted, and commanded. Evidently, it wasn't working, and Ed came back to face him with flushed cheeks and an irate tilt to his eyebrows.

"Al's being an idiot," he said, as if that explained everything. Upon seeing Havoc's baffled expression, he elaborated, "He says he doesn't want me to play with you either." Ed spun suddenly. "Shut up! I'll tell him whatever I want, idiot. _You_ could talk to him if you wanted… Because! I'm not here to be your translator, stupid."

"It's alright if he doesn't wanna play, chief," Havoc interrupted, afraid that Edward would start throwing punches at plain air. While that might not have any physical effect, it wasn't something he wished to see. "Lets find another game. You got any?"

Ed shook his head, but he seemed to relax.

The soldier smiled gently. He was dredging up any memory from his younger years for guidance in this strange situation. Anything— _anything_ —would help! "Does Al have an idea?"

Ed froze; he was listening. "Al says _'Snap_ '."

Of course. ' _Snap_ '. It was a game tried and tested by generations upon generations of children in even the most remote country town and bustling city. Easy, too—Jean knew the rules almost through some primitive instinct.

"Alright," he agreed, and started to deal. But, no sooner than he had placed Ed's portion on the grass before him, Ed had lost interest. Havoc's upturned ace of clubs remained solitary between them, while the opposite pile hadn't been touched. "Is something wrong? Didn't I deal properly?"

Ed shook his head mutely from side to side, then said, in a voice hushed with reluctance, "Won't Granny be mad?"

"Mad?" Jean echoed. "Mad about what?"

"This." He gestured towards the ace. "I thought she sent you here to punish me."

Havoc chuckled even while a lead weight settled in his stomach. "I don't think that's appropriate, Ed. It wouldn't be right for me to punish you—and if your granny really thinks you need punishment, she can do it herself."

Ed met his eyes hesitantly. "But why are _you_ here?"

"I'm here to play some cards." Havoc tapped his pile twice for emphasis and then started a new cigarette. "Maybe I'll get to know you better, too."

The boy's uncertain expression fell—with so much force it seemed _audible_ —into mistrust and suspicion. Havoc imagined it to be somewhat similar to a drawbridge slamming into place—a drawbridge guarded by a seven-foot suit of armour. He could imagine that armour lifting one leather hand, and waving tauntingly. " _He's just a child_ ," it said, and its voice merged with that of Pinako Rockbell's. " _You can't take him to the military. You can't take him away from me._ "

So when Ed spoke, Havoc barely suppressed the urge to flinch in surprise. Though it was still mid-morning, he was cold.

"Are you another doctor?" the child asked softly. Softly, like stone on steel, slowly, quietly, sharpening a blade as long as his forearm. "Winry said something about doctors today. You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"What makes you think _I'm_ a doctor?" Havoc tried the smirk that the Lt Colonel often sent those who had asked what was, in his opinion, a dumb question. A slight lift at the corner of his mouth, and a quirk of the eyebrow—that was the recipe for mockery so subtle it often went undetected. "Did someone else say that?"

"Al did," Ed admitted, then he ducked as if a heavy fist was nearing his head. The swift movement disrupted his neat stack of cards.

"And what do you think?" Havoc interrupted before the boy could start yelling at his shadow once again. The question seemed to capture Ed's attention. A tiny smile appeared at the corner of his lips, and his expression became just a little less guarded.

"Me?" he asked, almost hopefully. Then his mouth twisted into a wry grin; it suited him. "I think you're not so bad."

"Thanks, chief." Havoc chuckled. Maybe the situation wasn't _quite_ as simple as he had first predicted, but… "You're not so bad, either."

 **XxX**

 _13 June 1911 — Day 1 at Rockbell Residence_

 _Today was much more informative, boss. I guess it's lucky the kid lives out in the middle of nowhere, because if he_ did _have to go to school every day, that could be a problem. As it is, only Miss Rockbell is attending school at the moment. Mrs Rockbell is keeping Ed home on account of his automail surgery last year, and Ed doesn't seem too unhappy about that. He seems like a smart kid, Lt Colonel—there are huge books all over the house, and I'm told they don't belong to either Rockbell—if you_ really _had to choose a twelve-year-old boy to join the state, you chose a good one._

 _Except for one thing. His brother._

 _I know Mrs Rockbell asked you if you'd seen a suit of armour walking around on your last visit—that was pretty much all the information I got out of you, and I can imagine your damn smirk from here. I saw it this evening (after the children went to sleep), in the basement of the Elric household, and Mrs Rockbell is right; it really hasn't moved, not for almost a year. She left it on the ground because it was too heavy to lift that night when she found Edward, and nothing's happened to it since. It's pretty much fused to the ground._

 _And that brings me to this morning, somehow. I probably should've started with the morning, but that armour is fresh in my mind. So this morning, just after breakfast, Ed ran off and I was sent after him on Mrs Rockbell's request. It was the most bizarre situation, Lt Colonel. I went through an entire pack of cigarettes in less than two hours. Edward was in the graveyard when I found him, sitting in front of a pair of gravestones. And_ that _was where it got weird. It was like Ed couldn't see the writing on the gravestone (it was his brother's—Alphonse Elric's). I don't mean that he was ignoring it; I mean that he quite literally_ could not _see anything._

 _I don't know how to write this next part. I'm sure you can see in the margins the tears from where I had to rip out pages—that was because of this part. Even after all of these attempts, I know there is no way I can put into words what really happened; it's just too difficult. Edward was arguing with Alphonse. And when I say 'Alphonse', I mean_ nothing _. He was arguing with nothing, Lt Colonel, and it was quite… surreal. Mrs Rockbell told me he had been seeing Alphonse ever since the accident—I'm starting to doubt whether it's really just an imaginary friend._

 _I know, I know, how can I change my mind so soon? It was that card game—no, actually, it was the conversation during the card game. Stop laughing at me, Mustang, because I swear you'd believe me if you saw. Alphonse, the imaginary friend, seems to_ scare _Ed a little, though he'd never admit it. Talking to Ed was like talking to a Xingese ambassador (not that I've ever done that). It felt like he was hearing what I said, sending it to his brother, and then relaying Al's words back to me. This'll sound weird, too, but I feel that Alphonse—yes, the imaginary friend—doesn't like me. We'll have to wait and see what happens in that aspect._

 _So, Mustang, now that I've provided you amusement, I'll be catching a few hours of sleep. Just promise me one thing: when I give you this journal, promise to read it in your private office. I don't want to hear you laughing, especially not if this turns out to be nothing._

 _Let's hope for the best._

 **XxX**

The house was quiet, and the country around it was even quieter. Occasionally, the calm lowing of a cow would echo faintly over the tall grass, and the odd bird would let out a startling call, but that was all familiar to Ed. He barely noticed it anymore. The sound of soft clinking downstairs, however— _that_ was new. It only ever happened when the Rockbell household welcomed a guest—which was strange considering Havoc's arrival the day _before_ —or on the anniversary of the night that Winry heard of her parents' death. Said clinking was the noise of glass hitting glass in the barest of touches, and evoked in Ed's mind images of an amber liquid Granny wouldn't let him taste, not even a little.

That was a good sign, then, right? The atmosphere this evening was much lighter than the one before; Ed had seen the beginnings of a reluctant smile on his grandmother's lips, no matter how hard she tried to hide it. And now she was drinking with Jean Havoc, a farmer from the east, and when she had called him their 'guest', the word had not been accompanied by a displeased twist of the lips.

Ed knew, and maybe Pinako had realised, that Havoc was not so unpleasant. His cigarettes smelt and he had a terrible habit of mentioning Ed's pitiful height, but Ed decided that he could look past that, as long as the man continued to be such good company. Imagine that—Edward Elric _getting along with_ an adult. It seemed unheard of, and was certainly unprecedented.

"You like him, then?" Alphonse asked as Ed stripped out of his shirt. Undoing the buttons was difficult with his automail bandaged, but he didn't dare take the wrappings off.

"Mm," Edward mumbled in agreement, then he let out a large yawn. Al was perched upon the edge of his bed, as if he were waiting for his brother to lie down before he could feign sleep. "He's pretty cool, for an old guy."

"He's not that old, Brother."

"No, not _that_ old." He sat on his own bed and tugged off his boots, staring at them critically for a moment, then tossing them in the general direction of the door. They made satisfying _thuds_ on the wooden floorboards. "Not like Granny—but Granny's ancient!"

It was as he changed his shorts into pants more suited to sleeping that Ed noticed Alphonse hadn't reprimanded him yet—not for being disrespectful, nor throwing his shoes around the place. The red lights in his brother's helmet were dim, even in the near-darkness of their shared bedroom, and it seemed as if he was in some sort of deep contemplation.

Ed studied him for a moment before asking, "Are you okay there, Al? You're really quiet."

"Hm?"

"Is… something wrong? Did I do something?"

Al hesitated for just one second too long before he answered, "It's not you, Brother, really."

"Then it's…?"

"Mr Havoc," he confessed, and Ed knew, if he had a face, Al would be grimacing. As it was, the helmet remained stubbornly tilted towards the floor. "I'm not sure we should talk to him. We don't really know him and that… introduction he gave us wasn't very informative. I don't think it's—"

"Al." Ed waited until Al looked over at him. "It's fine, alright? He's not staying long."

"I know, but—"

"Al, drop it. You're being ridiculous."

When Edward awoke the next morning, Alphonse was gone.

 **XxX**

 _ **So please leave a review? It'll bring the next chapter out faster ;)**_


	4. Missing

_**ILLUSORY**_

 _ **Hope you like the chapter :)**_

 _ **CHAPTER FOUR • Missing**_

"Has he spoken?"

The question, loud in the silence of the living room, cut into the pops and cracks of the fire and startled Pinako terribly. The cup of tea in her skilled hands clattered against its saucer as she fought to steady it, losing a few warm drops in the process. Once it was more or less steady, she released her aggravation in a loud, annoyed sigh.

"Is it really a great idea to sneak up on women of my age?" Pinako asked in a huff. "That could be dangerous, I'll have you know."

"Right, sorry," Havoc apologised as he took the armchair opposite. "I wasn't thinking. But is there any news on Ed?"

Pinako's mouth set into a thin, tight line. "Winry got him out of his room at lunchtime. First time since yesterday morning."

"That's an improvement, right?" the soldier probed hopefully.

"Hm," she grunted, neither a yes nor a no. "There's no way to tell. Last time… he was like this for almost five weeks. This is only the second day, and," the corner of her lip quirked upwards sardonically, "that boy follows his own schedule. He'll come back eventually."

"So…" Havoc frowned and leaned his elbows on his thighs in order to prop up his head. "He's—"

"He's just sulking." Shaking her head, Pinako let out another sigh. Her tea, when she raised it to her mouth, was cold, and she set it down on the coffee table with a grimace. "Did you say something to him?"

"No!" Jean flew back from his pensive position until he hit the armchair. His eyes were wide at the accusation. His expression was noticeably dumb. "No, of course I didn't!"

"Very well. Did he say something to you?"

"…No." He shook his head and returned, cautiously, to his previous position. Though Pinako seemed to believe him, it was better to be safe than sorry. "And even if he _did_ say something unusual… I wouldn't know. I don't know him well enough."

"Yet," Pinako added with a voice of stone. Her eyes matched the tone, and Havoc had difficultly meeting their gaze. " _That's_ what you want to say, isn't it?" She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose, continuing much more quietly. "You damn military men. Just how long will Mustang keep you here?"

"He was planning to call soon," Havoc answered. "Might even be today. You can ask him then."

"Humph," Pinako directed her gaze towards the fire until the flames flickered in her glasses. "That man has no sense of propriety… And what of you, Mr Soldier?"

Jean raised an eyebrow. "Hm?"

"Will you really be taking my grandson away from me?"

His first instinct made itself very clear; it wanted to refuse her disguised accusation, to grin and laugh and say 'of course I couldn't do that!' But… weren't they his orders? He was, after all, there to assess Edward's skill. If that skill was enough to disregard the boy's obvious lack of years… then yes. Yes, he would be taking her grandson.

"I, uh…" he attempted that laugh he so wanted to do. It didn't work, and only birthed a heavy weight deep in his gut. Guilt. Guilt he shouldn't be feeling; he was just under orders. "I wouldn't put it exactly like that. We'd be offering him a, uh, a… Resources. A secure future, ma'am."

"He's twelve, Havoc. He's not five foot tall, and he has the attention span of a flea. I'll _never_ understand why you'd want a child in your military, let alone this one. No matter how many times I make you explain." She sighed, and her next words came out quieter. "Why should he need resources or a secure future so young?"

"It might be better if you asked the lieutenant colonel, ma'am," he said, trying to catch her eye. He wasn't willing to talk any further, and hoped that, by getting her to look at him, she would realise this. It was a sore subject for the both of them—for different reasons.

But she didn't look at him. Pinako continued to glare at the fire for several long moments, then she muttered, "None of this will be important if we can't break him out of his sulk. We're not sure what caused this one; that's the problem."

Havoc nodded in agreement. "If you knew what was wrong, could you fix it?"

"That boy's more complex than an automail head, Mr Soldier," she replied sardonically. "It's impossible to understand all those wires and connections."

"Have you made an automail head?" Havoc asked with a tiny, daring smile.

Pinako matched his expression perfectly. "Now who would be needing an automail head?"

"Someone with really bad luck," he guessed. "Though they'd probably be dead by the time it was attached."

" _Probably_?" Pinako echoed with amused incredulity. "I'm flattered you think so highly of my surgical skills, Mr Havoc, but even I couldn't perform such a miracle. You can talk to Edward; he tried."

"Tried what, ma'am?"

"He tried to perform a miracle."

 **XxX**

 _We made a promise._

A promise?

 _A promise._

What promise?

 _What type of promise?_

Yes, what type of promise.

 _A strong promise. A damning promise._

What was the promise?

 _Terrible. Terrible._

What was the promise?

 _Never leave. Never abandon. We left._

We abandoned.

 _Alphonse._

Al. We left Al?

 _No. No. We promised._

Promised?

 _Promised we'd get him back._

From where?

 _They took him._

Where?

 _White. Everywhere._

The Gate. The Promise.

 _Yes. The Promise._

'I'll do whatever it takes to get your body back.'

 **XxX**

Beneath the rumble of the storm outside, the phone was barely audible. It was honestly a miracle that it worked at all, given the strength of the wind; that telephone pole was rickety at best, and dangerous at worst. Pinako supposed she should probably look into getting it fixed before it flattened their house. The creaks and groans she could hear just made her wish she had done it sooner. Perhaps Havoc might do it once the sky cleared?

That musing brought her attention to the man facing her on the opposite armchair, a question in his eyes. No, not a question: a request. Ha. That was to be expected from a soldier; he was so _reliant_ on authority. Not a single thought bloomed from within his head through his own seed—all were planted there by a careful hand.

Before her lip could curl in resentment, Pinako sighed and returned her glare to the fire. "Go ahead," she granted him permission. "I can tell you've been waiting for his call." Why else would he spend more than two hours in her company? She wasn't particularly _trying_ to be unpleasant, but an old woman can't be blamed for her irritability.

Havoc sent her a tiny, grateful smile, then stood and crossed the room in one fluid motion. Oh, despite her reservations, she did miss being so graceful. To move with so little effort…

"Rockbell residence, Jean speaking."

Briefly, Pinako considered shuffling closer, just to listen to the Lt. Colonel's reply. Because it would no doubt be smarmy and distasteful, just like the man himself, and she had no qualms in saying that she wanted to see her unwelcome guest squirm under that intensity. But she merely shut her eyes against that temptation, retrieved her pipe from her lap, where it had been lying for quite some time, and rested it against her lips.

"I know, sir, the weather's not great at the moment." Warrant Officer Havoc apologised sharply. Pinako caught him glance over to her, perhaps to see if she bought his 'diligent soldier' act, and had to suppress a smirk. The man looked severely uncomfortable, as if he had taken the expression 'to have a stick up one's ass' and made it a painful reality.

"Yes, sir." He inclined his head, again as if the telephone line could somehow transmit action as well as sound. The Lt. Colonel said something in reply, and Havoc's posture loosened in an instant. "I did better though," he said with a slight chuckle. Pinako raised an eyebrow. "What? You teasin' me, boss? I'll have you know that I've been doin' my homework each night… That journal! Ask Hawkeye if… I can hear something, is she there? Tell her she can't shoot me over the telephone wire, no matter how hard she tries… Well then make sure her gun's empty when I come back! …No, I, ah…" At this point, the grin slipped from Havoc's face and he sent Pinako a nervous glance. "I think it might be better if you talk to Mrs Rockbell. She has a better idea of what's going on."

"That's damn right." Pinako chose that moment to push herself up from the armchair, every fibre of her body protesting the motion. She placed her pipe on the wooden coffee table with a quiet clunk. "Let me talk, soldier. I'll fill the bastard in."

Havoc hesitated, then shot her a wry smile. As Pinako shuffled over to the wall, she extended one gnarled hand and beckoned for the telephone. It fell, smooth and heavy, into her palm, and she gave him a tight-lipped smile. Neither of them were particularly looking forward to the coming conversation. Even the satisfaction of knowing that the cocky Lt. Colonel would be displeased didn't warm her heart as it generally would. She was worried.

"Lt. Colonel Mustang," Pinako greeted coolly once the phone was settled comfortably against her ear. "The last time you called it was to invite one of your lackeys to my home. I was expecting another."

"You _did_ agree to the intrusion, Mrs Rockbell," he replied in a voice that was just a touch too polite to be sincere.

"I did," she recognised with a slight dip of the head. "But for how long did I agree to this?"

There was a creak on the other side of the phone as Mustang shifted in his chair. "That's up to you, Mrs Rockbell. You're under no legal obligation to let us stay." His voice quietened. "This is just for Edward."

Pinako huffed, but allowed the corner of her mouth to quirk upwards nonetheless. The bastard knew just what to say in any situation—or that was what he thought. "I'm not sure your soldier's visit was such a bright idea, Mustang. It hasn't done Edward much good."

The silence on the other phone was extremely enjoyable, despite the topic of discussion. Each second it deepened; each second it grew more satisfying. But it had to finish, eventually. "Has Havoc done something to offend you?"

"Hmm." She hummed as if deep thought. "It could be. But Edward's always been a stubborn brat; there's a high chance your man was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time."

When Mustang spoke, it was sharp and fast. "What happened?"

"Well, Lt. Colonel, I can at least assure you that your cover isn't blown. In fact, even if your Warrant Officer waltzed into his bedroom wearing full uniform, I doubt Edward would react."

"What does that mean?"

Pinako smirked at the frustration in the calm man's voice. Oh, this shouldn't be so pleasing. "I mean that Edward has fallen back into a stupor of sorts."

"Like the one he was in when we first met?"

"Exactly. We first noticed yesterday morning."

There came a heavy exhale from Mustang's end, and a long pause, then he said, "You're awfully calm for a woman whose grandson is almost comatose."

"Oh? Does it seem so?"

"It does."

"That's because I know my Edward," she said shortly. "And so I know he'll come back to us. Eventually. It's just a question of how long and whether you're willing to wait for an uncertainty."

"And why would it be an uncertainty?"

"Because you should know by now, Mustang, that I'm gonna fight to keep him here. There are no guarantees that you'll ever have control over him, even if he wakes right now. Besides, do you really want control over a boy who lapses into states such as these with no prior warning? He sounds more like a danger than an asset."

"I assure you, Mrs Rockbell, that twelve-year-olds with his penchant for alchemy are rare. He would be a valuable asset despite any dangers."

"But this is a strong danger, isn't it?" The silence on the other side of the line provided Pinako with suitable answer. "This child will never pass any mental examinations, I can tell you that now. Your lackey will tell you the same, if he's honest. You bring him to a battlefield, and he won't be able to fight. He'll freeze up and watch as you and your team are killed."

"That's a fairly harsh judgment, Mrs Rockbell."

"This boy has been through a lot," she continued grimly. "But it hasn't made him stronger, that's for sure. If he sees one more corpse, he'll snap beyond repair."

"Then we'll put him in theoretical alchemy. All he wants is—"

"He's twelve. I'm not having this conversation again, Mustang. He doesn't know what he's doing, let alone what he wants. What he _needs_ ," she said forcefully, "is to have a relatively normal childhood _here_ , with what little remains of his family."

"I understand that, Mrs Rockbell, but—"

"And so I need to know: how long will there be a soldier under my roof?"

Mustang exhaled loudly on the other side of the line and took a few moments to compose himself. The storm outside seemed to grow in intensity as the silence lengthened.

"That is _entirely_ up to you, Mrs Rockbell. If you really want, throw him out now."

"I was under the impression that you cared about your men, Lt. Colonel." Pinako paused to catch her guest's eye. "Would you really let me leave him outside in this weather? He'd catch his death before the first train arrived."

There followed another heavy silence. The connection crackled angrily. Pinako waited. It was again the Lt. Colonel who first spoke.

"I'd consider this call finished, wouldn't you?" he said rather curtly. "I truly hope that your grandson makes a full recovery."

"Of course you'd hope for that."

"It was a pleasant talk. Please send my man back whenever you feel is safe."

"I will be sure to do so, Mustang. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

The connection died. For a few moments, she held the ungainly contraption to her ear, but soon replaced it in its cradle. There was a slight _clink_ as the metal touched, much the same as the sound Edward made when walking barefoot on stone. Oh, she felt so drained. Maintaining such a calm façade was dreadfully wearisome.

"Havoc," she tried to bark strictly—because his sudden flinches seemed to give her a sadistic joy. It didn't work, however, and when she turned, all she was met with was concern. Concern for her wellbeing? Ridiculous. "I'm going to lay down for a while. If Winry comes to find me, tell her I won't be disturbed. Understand?"

"Yes, ma'am." Havoc inclined his head slightly and Pinako breathed out a sigh of relief. Those piteous eyes of his made her feel weak and _old_. How horrid.

"I should be back in time for dinner, but if not, tell her we have all the ingredients for some sort of meat pie." Pinako started down the hallway as soon as Havoc looked up at her. The cold was an awful ache deep within her bones, but she refused to let her discomfort outwardly manifest in a humiliating limp. "Good afternoon, Mr Soldier."

She tuned out his reply.

 **XxX**

Tentatively, Winry raised one oil-smeared fist and rapped on the door before her. There was no reply. She laid the tray on the floor before trying again—but still no reply came from the other side. The first curls of frustration bloomed within her. She tried the doorknob, but it was locked.

"Ed!" Winry called through the thick wood, knowing he would be able to hear if he was alert. And he _must_ be somewhat alert, right? He'd had enough sense to lock the door, though she had no idea of whom he was trying to lock out. "Edward Elric! If you don't open this door in the next ten seconds, I'm getting the tool kit! Ed! Edward!" She punctuated each call with a knock so fearsome it rattled the frame.

And then it opened. She really hadn't expected that, but it happened. For too long, she was unable to do much more than blink dumbly. Then sense returned and she stuck a foot into the small gap—would he really slam it closed with her in the way? She thought not, but nevertheless made short work of gathering up the tray and pushing inside.

Edward was seated on the bed and, if she had not known that he had just opened the door, she might have assumed he hadn't moved at since she last left. He was still curled up with his knees against his chest and his back pressed into the wall. The expression on his face was neither sad nor melancholy, nor anything Winry may have expected from her moody foster-cousin—no, it was a careful blank. The gold of his eyes was dulled to a caramel brown; his lips were only _slightly_ downturned; and he didn't appear able to see her.

Winry stood awkwardly in the threshold, somehow feeling very much an intruder despite living in this house her entire life. This was _Edward's_ space. He shared it with Alphonse, he said, so the second bed was completely necessary. Wasn't it amazing how _neat_ Alphonse was able to make the bed each morning? It was almost as if he had never slept there at all.

"I… I brought drinks," Winry said before her thoughts could get much deeper. Edward barely stirred. "Hot chocolate."

His deadened gaze flickered to her, then, and Winry fought the urge to step back. Instead, she walked forward and sat on Al's bed. Edward watched dispassionately as she placed the tray on the quilt, cautious not to spill a drop.

"Is there milk in it?"

"Only a little," Winry replied. Her stomach fluttered uncomfortably—was he truly waking up, or was this merely a minor lapse in his numb state? "You won't be able to taste it."

Ed stared at the steaming mugs, deciding. When a decision was reached, he tightened his grasp on himself and shrunk so far into the wall it was a miracle he didn't go _through_ it. "No thanks," he muttered.

Winry's pretty face screwed up in a scowl. "You _need_ to eat something, Edward!"

"I can't eat it," he protested bitterly. "It's a liquid."

"Ugh!" she slammed her feet against the carpeted ground, but didn't stand. "You're _insufferable_!" It was a new word she had been anxious to try. Edward remained quiet. She watched. The last time Ed was like this, it lasted for what seemed forever—that wouldn't happen again, would it? No. No. She was determined to break him out of this before it went too far. Too far. If it went too far, she'd never bring him back.

She didn't even notice her tears until they fell onto her clenched fists. "Ed…" Winry's voice hitched and she waited for her heart to stop clambering about in her chest before continuing. "Ed, please come down. I'd like some help making dinner. E… Ed? Please, I'm making stew."

Ed shivered. "You can make it, can't you?"

"Are you cold?" Ignoring that he could merely drink his milk to regain some warmth, Winry chose the more merciful approach and simply hurried over to the cupboard. The spare blankets were on the floor where Edward could reach them late at night. Selecting a bright red one of which she knew he would approve, she calmly returned to his side. There, she paused.

Ed was talking—muttering to himself. It became audible as she approached, though no words were distinguishable. They all melted into one constant stream of vowels and consonants, each no different from the other. And so _quiet_. His voice was decibels below that of a whisper—but with every second it grew.

His shivers had evolved into shudders and then into large, wracking shakes. It was so sudden. The entirety of Winry's extensive medical knowledge immediately packed its bags and departed, leaving her standing dumbly beside her childhood friend with a useless blanket in her grasp.

 _Granny_. She had to find Granny.

 **XxX**

There was blood a-all over the floor. Surely that small cut he had carved into their fingers wasn't enough to cause all of this? It was everywhere! Walls, floor, books, paraphernalia—even himself. It was warm, but he felt cold. He felt so cold.

And where was Al?

Ed tried to push himself away from the sticky, stone ground, but his body wouldn't cooperate. It was overbalanced and he was dizzy. Where was Al? Damn it—he couldn't see! Everything was so dark! Shadows danced before his unsteady vision mockingly. " _We can move,_ " they jeered, " _Pathetic boy. Get up and find your_ dearest _little brother."_

No—no! Alphonse wasn't _here_! That breathing in the circle, it was _too deep_ , too _guttural_ to belong to a ten-year-old boy! What was it? What was in here with him? And _where was Alphonse?_

He was so cold.

 **XxX**

"S-something's wrong," Winry blurted with no prior warning. Havoc blinked and closed his novel softly. "I need Granny."

"Sorry?"

Winry sucked in a heaving breath, as though she had been running for miles. Her complexion was somehow simultaneously pale and blotchy with colour. "I need Granny. I-is she outside?"

"She asked not to be disturbed." Havoc frowned and instinctively got to his feet. "Is there something wrong with Ed?"

Winry, unable to speak, answered with a tearful nod, and soon they were speeding up the stairs. Havoc took them two at a time in his haste. If something terrible happened to the boy on his watch, he would forever be blamed—not just by the Rockbell's, but by himself and possibly several of his team. Oh, even if it were for purely selfish reasons, he wanted the boy to be all right!

But he wasn't. That much was clear as soon as he came into earshot. Beneath the storm outside, Edward's gibberish was simply that—gibberish.

"Hey, hey," Havoc said in an attempt to hush the boy. He rushed over to the bed and stopped just out of Edward's reach. "Ed, can you hear me?"

A flood of noises and sounds poured from Ed's lips, but none made any sense. A frightening blue tinge washed over the child's skin as he continued to talk without pause for breath, so Jean reached out to shake him out of the stupor. At least, that is what he would tell himself later. In truth, the sight was just too much for him to watch statically—he had to _act_.

A piercing scream interrupted Edward's words as soon as Havoc's hands made contact with his shoulders, and Havoc flinched away as if burnt. He glanced over to the doorway where Winry hovered uncertainly, her eyes still brimming with unfallen tears. Ed had regressed back into his unnerving mutters. But now there were words dispersed throughout the disorder.

"Did…" Winry licked her lips nervously as he gaze shifted from her friend to the guest. "Did he just say…"

"Al," Havoc breathed at the same time as Ed. Ed, however, didn't make sense of this breakthrough and merely carried on as he had previously. Turning to Winry, he asked, "Al is his brother, isn't he?"

Winry nodded solemnly. "Was."

An idea forming, Havoc returned his attention to the boy in front of him. Determination and a confidence he didn't feel swelling in his tone, he said one thing: "Alphonse."

Ed's gaze cleared almost unnoticeably; it was a start.

"He's reacting." Winry came to stand beside him, worrying her bottom lip. "Should you… try it again?"

"Edward." The soldier waited until his patient looked up at him with an unfocused gaze; it was darting all over the room, as if searching. Maybe he was. "Where's Alphonse? Is he doing this?"

"Alphonse isn't—" Winry began, but Havoc hushed her gently. He knew exactly what Alphonse wasn't. Alphonse wasn't _real_.

Somehow, saying that aloud didn't seem like the best idea.

Edward was blinking, long and hard, like he was trying to clear his vision. The automail was clenched around his flesh knee so hard that it was certain to leave an imprint and an ugly bruise, but he didn't notice. Slowly, the onslaught of nonsense words stopped, but that vague disconnection in Ed's gaze barely faded. His jaw, still hanging ajar, moved slightly. "Alphonse?"

"Yes—Alphonse. Have you seen him, Ed?"

The boy's throat worked frantically and a quiet whine escaped. He didn't speak.

"We can't find him, Ed," Havoc lied, ignoring Winry's incredulous warning glare. He was starting to understand the problem; he couldn't stop here. "Can you help us?"

"I don't know where he's gone," Edward whispered. To his credit, though, none of the tears collecting in his eyes fell over. "I don't know where he went."

"We want to find—"

"Why?"

Jean found himself stumped at that. Why? He hadn't expected to know why. Wasn't it enough for the boy to know that there was a competent, caring adult ready to search those tall places he couldn't reach? He was going to lose him! And all because his stupid brain couldn't come up with a better answer than, "Uh… Why what?"

Ed didn't consider this strange, apparently. The boy's breathing was heavy and he was leaning forward when he asked, "Why would you want to find Al? He hates you."

"He's your—"

"But _why_ do you want to find him?" Ed repeated, his voice growing louder. It really was miraculous that Mrs Rockbell hadn't awoken with all of this drama just down the hall. Or maybe, Jean considered with a twinge of irritation, she _was_ awake and merely listening to see how it turned out. "It's _your_ fault he's gone in the first place! Wh-what if he falls, a-and the blood seal gets d-damaged? I _promised_ him I'd get him _back_!"

Just when Havoc thought Ed's yelling was going to break the windows, he froze, then sank back against the wall. This time, when he looked into the soldier's eyes, his own were clear and full of comprehension. This child—this twelve-year-old _boy_ —was so weary already. Could he honestly cope with the troubles of the military on top of his own dreadful history? No, that didn't seem fair. Havoc didn't want to oppose Mustang's judgement, but it was hard to do anything else.

"I…" Edward said, dragging Havoc's attention back immediately. "I'm fine now."

Havoc stayed silent. In his peripheral vision, Winry shifted uncomfortably. Both knew that the source of their anxiety was lying. It was written plainly in the tautness of his mismatched shoulders and the white-knuckled grip he had on his automail leg. His mouth was bitten to shreds and his face was abnormally pale, but he tried a smile nonetheless.

Winry took a step forward, reaching out to touch him, but he moved away. "Ed—"

"I'm fine, Winry." Stiffly, Edward uncurled and set a metal foot on the floor. "I had time to think; I know where Al is. We fought." He tried another placating smile, but Winry's frown just deepened. "He'll be at the river. He always goes there when we fight."

A burst of thunder rattled the windows. Ed paid it no mind. There was a blankness in his expression and the manner in which he was moving around the room, collecting shoes and a jacket in some sort of trance. Jean only realised that he had been caught up in it, too, when Winry darted over and frantically tugged on his sleeve.

"You _can't_ let him go out there!" she cried. "The automail—he'll get hit by lightning!"

"Oh. Oh! Ed?"

Ed turned, and the dark circles above his cheeks were the first thing Havoc noticed. He didn't talk, but it was obvious that he was waiting.

"I know you wanna go find Alphonse, but if you know where he is, then what's the rush?"

Ed frowned. "I need to know that he's okay."

Damn—that had the opposite effect of what he had planned. So Havoc fixed on his most convincing grin and began to fix his mess. "Your brother's strong, though. If you go out in this weather, you'll get sick and he'll worry." The frown was growing—was that a good sign? Jean sighed. "Look, chief, I'll make you a deal. If you can lie down for ten minutes without falling asleep, I'll go out with you to look for Alphonse. Is that a deal?"

Nine and a half minutes later, Edward Elric was asleep.

 **XxX**

 _15 June 1911 — Day 3 at Rockbell Residence_

 _Honestly, Mustang, it's all gone to shit. If you plan on submitting this as a report, you might want to black out that part. Ed hadn't spoken since yesterday morning (as I heard Mrs Rockbell tell you) but just then I walked in on him having some sort of psychotic episode. I'm seriously reconsidering my initial verdict. This may be too much for me, sir._

 _The girl, Winry Rockbell, thought I may have been able to placate Ed in place of his grandmother, but really, I have no idea how that went. As soon as he stopped spouting nonsense, he fell asleep. That was about two hours ago, sir. Mrs Rockbell has woken and her granddaughter informed her of the afternoon's events, but it's still rather uncomfortable. This woman could make the Fuhrer cry._

 _Edward is really worrying me, Mustang. I'm beginning to think Mrs Rockbell is right—he could become a liability if he joins the military. He's just so young and the loss of his brother has affected him more than I can say. Hell, he still thinks Alphonse is alive! I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but it might be worth listening to the boy's grandmother. Because, honestly, sir… I don't know what's happening._

 **XxX**

 _ **Thanks for reading, and please let me know how I'm doing!**_


	5. Orders

_**ILLUSORY**_

 _ **It's late, I'm sorry. But the next chapter's all finished and ready to post!**_

 _ **CHAPTER FIVE • Orders**_

"I already apologised, Al." Ed shivered, rubbing at his shoulder port in an attempt to warm it. But when he directed his focus to the shoulder port, a sharp pain would shoot through his thigh. It really was a relentless cycle—much like the argument in which he was caught.

"I know, Brother." Alphonse made no move to help him.

"Why do I have to do this? I'll get sick!"

"You left _me_ outside."

Guilt, sharper and more damaging than any aches in his leg, bolted through his chest and seized his throat with vengeful talons. Yet somehow, despite the suffocation making his head swim, Edward still managed to mutter, " _Y_ _ou_ can't get sick."

Instantly, he felt a million times worse. He was the worst older brother in the world. Al didn't say anything—he didn't even move one non-existent muscle—but that red light within his helmet seemed much more accusing.

"Just please do this for me, Brother." The words, though pleading, echoed through the armour as a command. "I wanna _feel_ again, just for a moment."

"Can't you feel how fucking painful my automail is right now, Al?"

"Don't swear."

Ed groaned and thumped his head against the side of the house. "Why can't we do this inside?"

"It might get messy."

"But what about the bathtub?" Ed offered. If it had been anyone other than his brother inside that armour, he would have been terrified. The storm had ended, but still its clouds lingered, plunging Risembool into darkness. All he could see was Alphonse's giant silhouette and glowing eyes. "I could clean it."

"Just do it, Brother. You owe me."

"I already apologised!" Ed could blame his increase in volume on stubbornness. There was no way he could admit that his hesitation came more from fear. This wasn't the first time he'd been punished, but it was the first time Al looked so _angry_. "I-I promised, too!"

Al stayed silent and motionless, pressing Ed to continue.

"I won't talk to Mr Havoc again, Al, I promise! I'll just ignore him until he leaves. Alphonse, I _believe_ you, okay?" His voice had risen to a shout just as a new rumble of thunder shook the windowpanes. "Okay? Don't make me do this, please, Alphonse."

"But I thought you loved me."

He did.

 **XxX**

Winry knew something was wrong.

She may have been young, but she was _far_ from stupid—no matter what that idiot said!

And something _was_ wrong.

 _That idiot_ in question was wincing at odd points, so often that it was near impossible to blame his automail leg for the discomfort. He kept pulling at his woollen jumper as if it were strangling him, making sure that it remained separate from his skin at all times. Did he have a rash?

That didn't explain why his hands were shaking so much. It didn't explain the emptiness in his eyes. Perhaps he was still suffering from some of the previous day's effects. No, but that didn't make sense. He was conversing normally. He was eating normally. He seemed aware of his surroundings.

Then _what_?

"Hey, Ed." Winry nudged his elbow and inwardly cringed as he involuntarily let out a tiny hiss of pain. "Is your automail alright? I can help you warm it, if it hurts."

Edward shook his head and pulled the jumper away from himself again. It would be misshapen by the end of the day. "It's fine."

"Are you?"

"Of course." Ed ventured a grin, though it was weak at best. It soon collapsed into a glare. "Stop nagging."

Oh, it was tempting. There was a wrench in the front pocket of her overalls just _dying_ to be used—but she couldn't forget her initial goal: locate the problem.

"Really, Ed, I think you should sit by the fire. It'd help."

Ed refused in quite a desperate manner: "Can't we fix it here?" His focus drifted, and he muttered, "I _know_ , Al."

Winry drummed her fingers against the kitchen table. "What did Al say?"

Lips thinning, the boy paused for a moment. His brother was talking. "It doesn't matter, Winry. He wasn't speaking to you."

She huffed. "Does _he_ know what's wrong with you?" There was no answer, so she sighed. " _Fine_. Just take off the jumper. I'll be back with some warm cloths for your ports."

Pure panic engulfed Ed's expressive face, but he was having trouble forcing the words out. There was a first time for everything, Winry supposed. It certainly was fortunate that she had spoken of his automail port in plural—a repeat of the ' _your arm is flesh_ ' argument seemed an incredibly bad idea. When he was in this sort of state… it was better to play along with his delusions.

"Don't _worry_ , stupid." She folded her arms imperiously. There was a considerable size difference between the two of them, and it became wonderfully apparent when she stood and Edward sat. "You won't have to go into the lounge room. I can do it here."

"I-I-" he stammered, drawing his arms in close. "I have to take my jumper off?"

"Of course. Is that a problem? Are you _shy_?"

"N-no, idiot." Ed scowled, but it did nothing to put the colour back into his complexion. "It's just… It's too cold!"

Winry raised an eyebrow. "You're not even wearing socks; it can't be _that_ cold. Could you heat some water while I get the cloths?

"Don't go to any trouble for me, Win." Edward smiled in a reassuring manner. It was suspicious. "It doesn't hurt at all. I-I think maybe I just need some rest."

"Hmm." Winry pondered his proposition, staring at him so intently that he seemed to hold his breath. When she voiced her agreement, her patient slumped in relief. "But I'll be bringing the cloth to your room when it's ready."

"Thanks, Win," he said before shuffling away. He walked with a prominent limp, shoulders drawn inward, as if that single, fateful night had aged him to retirement. Maybe it had.

With his absence, the kitchen somehow felt smaller—it was certainly more quiet, even though he had barely spoken. The boy had a strange effect on his surroundings, Winry had noticed from the moments she had first become aware of his subtle changes. He left a room feeling lonely.

As promised, she set a pot of water on the stove to boil before finding herself at a loss of what to do. Granny was still in bed, complaining of stiff joints and fatigue, and adamant not to be disturbed—unless, of course, for situations similar to yesterday. That left only Mr Havoc for company. A thrill of uncertainty flickered inside her; the man seemed kind enough, but she had often gathered the impression that he had a greater interest in Edward. That was to be expected—who in their right mind would find an ordinary girl more fascinating than a half-mechanical genius?

The water was starting to bubble slightly and steam rolled off of its surface in gentle waves. It wasn't quite boiling, but, unable to stand the solitude and the darkness pressing against the windows, Winry searched the cupboards for a small, metal basin and, that located, proceeded to transfer the water from the stove. On her way down the hallway, she collected a couple of towels and threw them over her shoulder.

Knocking on his door and receiving nothing in response, Winry called that his water and cloth was outside the door, and left. Again, she could find little to occupy her attention. She really had little choice.

Mr Havoc looked up at her approach, marking his place in his novel with a thumb. "Good morning, Winry," he greeted pleasantly enough, though she could help but notice the way in which he searched the darkness behind her for a shorter, older, figure.

"Granny's still asleep," she informed him helpfully. "Do you… mind if I stay out here with you?"

Havoc seemed startled. "Oh," he said, "Well… of course. Is there something you wanted to talk about?"

As Winry took the armchair opposite, she knew he was remembering Ed's episode. It had barely been twenty-four hours, and they hadn't mentioned it once. Winry wondered whether that was unusual. Was it better to discuss confronting experiences soon after the event, or later, when they had had time to process it?

She shook her head and lowered her gaze. She couldn't bring it up, despite it lurking on the forefront of their minds. "I don't know."

Havoc's eyes rested on her with an almost tangible weight. "Did you wanna talk about Ed? You look sad."

"Sad?" Winry echoed, genuinely surprised. She wasn't _sad_ , was she? What did she have to be _sad_ about?

Her companion nodded, a small smile on his face. He also looked… sad.

The fire crackled. It sounded loud. Havoc looked as if he wanted to talk, but didn't know the words. Before Winry realised it, her own thoughts vomited into the air.

"He wants to join the military." Her fists tightened, scrunching her dress up around her knees. "He… He wants to join the military to do re-research and get Alphonse back, Mr Havoc. B-but i-if—what if there's a wa-war? Wh-what if _he_ gets killed, too?"

It came quietly out of nowhere, and honestly left Winry reeling. Her chest was tight and cheeks were wet and she hadn't planned to say _any_ of that! And now it was out there and Havoc was watching her in shock, half-poised to stand at a moment's notice. She felt like an _idiot_ , just blurting all that in such a rambling fashion! Havoc barely _knew_ her, and here she was unable to shut up about her stupid personal fears.

"If h-he goes to fight, he'll _die_ —I know he will! It's all _pointless_. Even if he-he—even if there isn't a war, he'll still be _gone_ and it's pointless! He ca-can't bring Al back from the dead." Dreadfully tired, and absolutely mortified at her honesty, Winry collapsed against the back of the armchair. "I'm… I'm afraid that he'll leave, too. That idiot."

 **XxX**

Havoc found himself utterly frozen, listening to the little girl's anxieties as they flowed from her and whispered cruelly in his ear. She was right. Of course she was. He often disregarded the fact, but Winry was Edward's oldest and closest friend. Of course she would fear his leaving.

But right now she was frozen, her jaw moving up and down in time to words gained and discarded in her mind. "I-I'm sorry," she eventually stammered. "I-I don't normall—I mean, I don't _usually_ … do this. Just ignore it, really. I didn't mean it." Winry smiled, though it was somewhat weak. "It's Ed's choice; it has nothing to do with me."

In the following silence, it was clear that she was waiting. Forced slightly from his state of shock, Havoc's mouth moved on its own: "No, don't apologise, Winry. Honestly, it's good to be so… truthful."

Winry started to shake her head, cut off by another spew of words.

"But what if it helps him?"

"How can it?" She sniffled and wiped an arm across her face. "He wants to join the military to sa-save Alphonse, but Al… he's already gone. H-he's never been here, not since that night."

"The military may help him realise this," Jean offered, despite being sceptical himself.

"The military would do anything to increase their strength," she retorted bitterly. "I can't imagine that destroying Ed's motivation would aid them."

"But what—"

" _Why_ are you defending them?" Winry cried suddenly, her thin fist thumping against the arm of her chair. "Why do you want him to leave us? Do you want him to leave us?"

"I-I don't!" Havoc raised his hands hastily in defence. The hurt in her eyes was merely another nail pried from the coffin of his resolve. "I'm telling the truth, Miss Rockbell. I really don't want to take Ed away from you."

Winry's gaze pierced him for several long moments—long enough to realise his mistake. _I really don't want to take Ed away from you._

 _Shit._

Yet she said nothing. She didn't call him out on his blunder. Her lips thinned, she looked back to the ground, and muttered, "Just Winry's fine." But then Winry met his gaze once more, and Jean was startled to see the ice inside. "He's avoiding you, anyway. _That's_ why he won't let me fix his automail in here—I'm sure of it."

This was news to Havoc. "He's avoiding me? Why?"

"Ask him yourself." The girl curled up, facing the back of the armchair and presenting him with her back. The pleasant atmosphere that had surrounded much of their previous conversation had well and truly vanished. "Mr Soldier."

 **XxX**

The bedroom was empty. That was all that registered in Havoc's mind before he was barrelling back down the staircase and past the sullen girl. The storm was fantastically violent outside, illuminating the windows and brass knob as he hurled open the door. His heart was pounding so hard it was audible above the thunder, above the creak of the telephone pole.

Winry ran up behind him, her high voice loud with worry. "What's happening? Where're you going?"

"Winry!" Jean gasped, his breathing laboured despite his greatest exertion being his run down the stairs. "You said Edward was in his room, didn't you? Have you seen him?"

"He's not in his room?" Winry chewed on her lower lip. "Did you check the other rooms? Granny's room?"

"No," he responded quickly. If Ed had heard Havoc's conversation with Winry, Mustang would have his head! "I checked all of them; he's not there."

The girl made a small noise and spun around in a tight circle, perhaps in an effort to find Edward lurking behind the couch. "I-I'll go look again. Are you gonna look outside?"

Rain was blowing through the open door and soaking the wooden floor. Another flash of lightning shocked the landscape. Havoc nodded, his expression tense. "Of course."

And then he ran. His clothes were drenched in seconds, but he spared no thought for the discomfort. The jacket was simply an extra weight on his shoulders—it was nothing compared to the anxiety gnawing at his gut. Oh God, he hoped the boy was huddled under a bed or a table or behind a door or just _anywhere_ out of this storm! The sudden certainty that he hadn't examined the cupboard in the kitchen almost forced him to turn back, before remembering the complete lack of a cupboard in the kitchen. He was making excuses. There was no way that he could justify losing his charge, and so he was creating fantastical scenarios in which Edward was inside, safe, and had not so obviously left the rear door open.

Boots slipping in the mud, Havoc slipped and skidded his way down the muddy roadway, his destination the cemetery. Where else would Edward have run? As far as the soldier had seen, there was little in the surrounding countryside—excluding, of course, the cemetery and some half-abandoned farmsteads. It really was a wonder that this tiny population deserved a train stop.

He stopped, suddenly, his core temperature plummeting for a reason that could not possibly be the rain. He could smell _smoke_.

Smoke! In this weather!

Certainly, the acrid scent could be nothing more than a neighbour's fireplace—it would not be unusual, given the chill in the air. But this was too _strong_ , too _potent_ , to be a controlled flame. Havoc turned and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the storm.

Bright against the darkness of the sky and fields, the pinprick of light several hills away kindled a distant awe within him. It was beautiful; the flames swirled and battered against the inside of the window, illuminating that single room with warmth. It wasn't magnificent in size, but in colour. So red! It was so orange! The crimson and gold battled for dominance, neither winning nor losing, but increasing in brilliance with every second.

 _Edward was in there_.

The knowledge came from nowhere. The following certainty stemmed from the same abyss. And then his boots were again slamming on the path, but this time they did not stumble. They were sure, thudding over mud and grass and rocks and, at one point, a low fence. Havoc didn't bother to follow the road; he cut through the paddocks, fuelled with adrenaline and desperation. It was faster. He would make it there in time to find Edward and rush him to safety—he _would_.

He would.

 _He would_.

He tripped in the front garden, slamming his knee on the ground, and hurried forward. The fire had spread hungrily over the left façade of the house, but the flames had yet to break through to the exterior.

That was a stupid thought.

Ironically, it was as this passed through Jean's mind that the window burst, raining shards of glass in tandem with the storm. He was thrown backwards, protected only by the metres of distance between him and the house, and his own arms before his face. A fragment slipped through his guard and trailed cruel fingers along his jawline, tracing scarlet over the injury, towards his shirt collar.

Then he hit the ground. It had no right to creep up on him so suddenly, nor to steal his breath in such a greedy manner. It wasted precious seconds; he couldn't move for several drawn-out moments. The first word past his lips came out in a pitiful wheeze: "Chief."

 **XxX**

He wasn't entirely sure how the fire started. Needing to escape the house—needing to escape _Havoc_ before Alphonse decreed another punishment was in order—Edward had run to the only place possible.

His old family home.

He hadn't been through that cheerful green door in months, so for a second he entertained the thought that the door, which appeared almost black in this light, was not his door at all, but that of a forgotten neighbour. The interior of the house was even more dreary. The words 'I'm home' tingled on his mouth, yet the lie never blemished the nostalgic corridor before him. It died instantly as he realised that, while this may have been his family home, it was now barely more than the shell of a house.

 _Burn it_ , Alphonse whispered. No, that wasn't Alphonse. Edward shook his head frantically from side to side, revelling as the wound on his chest throbbed in pain. That voice, that familiar whisper, had originated from his _head_ , not the armour by his side. He really _was_ an awful brother, trying to blame Al for his private _thoughts_.

 _Burn it._

Edward tossed his head from side to side once more before squinting down the corridor. He couldn't see a thing.

"Why don't you light a candle, Brother?" Alphonse suggested, and this time it _was_ Alphonse. It was a kind proposal, not the demand Ed's mind had conjured in its stead. Ed agreed.

There were candles in the library, left over from nights spent pouring over heavy alchemy texts. The boys had started with gas lanterns, but the gas had gradually diminished, leaving them with little options. The candles they had bought in an effort to continue their study still lay in a haphazard pile beneath the window. There hadn't been much chance to use them, and even less reason to move them.

Now there was. Edward lit one and set in within an empty lantern, repeating this process until light flickered against the library tomes.

"This brings back memories," the armour remarked quietly, surveying the small room.

"It does." Ed chuckled. "Just lying here, night after night, dreaming of Mother and her smile."

Alphonse dipped his head in either reverence or acknowledgement. "It sounds sweet when you say it like that."

"How else would you say it?"

Humming, Al rubbed a hand over his chin. "I would say… we spent those nights basking in our own arrogance, believing we had the power to defy death."

Edward flinched slightly at the malicious words. " _Arrogance_? Al, you wanted more than me to see Mother again! There was nothing _arrogant_ about it!"

"If you say so, Brother."

"I-I do," Ed insisted. He refused to believe that he had lost his brother due to _arrogance_.

Not lost—temporarily disembodied. There was a difference.

Sure there was.

"Any… Anyway, do you have anything you want to do, while we're here?" Ed pulled at his wet clothes, making a face at their state. "Actually, I do. I'm gonna see if we left any clothes here."

"Should I wait here, Brother? I can watch the candles."

Ed nodded in agreement. "Thanks, Al. I won't be long."

Quickly, he ran up the staircase, lamenting the absence of his brother already. After his disappearance the day earlier, Ed was hesitant to let Al out of his sight. But someone had to mind the candles. And honestly, how could they maintain such a close brotherly bond if Edward spent all his time fawning over Alphonse like an overprotective aunt? They had no one but each other.

There was a change of clothes in the cupboard upstairs, fortunately, and Ed sighed in relief while stripping the soggy wool from his injured chest. The item landed in the corner with a forceful _whump_ , but the boy didn't notice. He had caught sight of himself in the mirror.

He was so _small_ —that was the first thing he noticed. His size was not only relative to his height, but the unhealthy slightness of his limbs and the hunching of his shoulders. Did he always look like this, or was it simply an effect of the storm outside? It was truly a miracle that his automail arm didn't hurt him _more_. As it was, the dull ache had grown so normal as to be ignorable. His leg, however, was another story altogether. Were he not accustomed to it, he may have been forced to the ground to carry out his suffering in silence.

Secondly, his gaze was drawn downwards, to the crude sketching on his skin. It was difficult to believe that it was etched with a knife, and not merely ink, since the puckered skin above the ordered wounds had recently acquired a puzzling numbness; they were no longer sensitive to his touch, and the blood had clotted long before. Only a few select lines had cracked during his exertion, drooling crimson down his scrawny chest and torso.

Had he closed the library door?

That barely mattered.

Not when he was confronted with this ghost standing before him—and in his mirror, no less! In place of his rightful reflection! Oh, but was it correct to call this apparition a ghost? A ghost implied some kind of spirit that may once have existed, but nowhere in his remarkable memory could Edward find a creature quite like the one that shared the general structure of his face. He regarded the spirit with the same insensibility as he had the scabs on his body. It was there, certainly, but the fact that it was there made little impression on the boy. He had to hurry back to his brother.

Why was he here, again?

To find clothes; to rush downstairs to his waiting brother; to escape for _just a few moments_. He wanted to breathe easily, only for a minute or so. It honestly was through no fault of his own that the minutes ticked by steadily with the eagerness of seconds. One minute, two, seven, _twenty_ —they felt no longer than several instants. They came one after the other in quick, ordered procession; every tick was the beat of a soldier's boots on stone.

Gradually, the welcome ease of breath he had discovered began to fade. Edward initially blamed the sudden suffocation on guilt—after all, he must have been upstairs for almost a minute, right?—but discarded that theory upon smelling the air.

It smelt like smoke.

And now the status of the library door _did_ matter. Depending on whether it had been left open or closed, his chances of survival could be slim. What if the flames had already blocked the corridor? How was there so much smoke already!?

Almost instinctively, Ed began an odd sort of chant: "Al—Al—Al—Al—" as he flew down the stairs. So engrossed in his brother, Edward missed the last step and landed awkwardly, jarring his flesh ankle. Nevertheless, his chant continued: "Al—Al—Al—"

Walking was difficult, but Ed staggered to his feet with the aid of the bannister, wavering slightly as his head spun and the hallway, lit only by small flickers of fire from beneath the door, separated into two. The floor shuddered as a loud _bang!_ resonated from the front of the house, followed by the sounds of glass shattering and an increase of oxygen to the flames. It suddenly became much warmer.

"Chief!"

Ed froze as if the name had been screamed directly into his ear, though in reality it was barely audible above the chaos ahead. It was the shock that locked his joints rigid and dried his mouth completely. He had come her to get _away_ from Havoc—how, then, was he _here_?

But maybe this was a blessing. Maybe he was _lucky_ that Havoc had come—Havoc could help him put out this fire before it spread!

"Don't be stupid, Brother."

Al's voice, so calm in the cacophony, broke the spell and weakened Ed's knees.

"Al," he gasped in relief, noting remorsefully that he hadn't spared his safety a thought. Nor had he succeeded in his quest to find a shirt.

Alphonse spoke as if Ed hadn't interrupted, "We can't trust him to help us. We don't know him."

"B-but he's come here…" the boy argued in a quiet, tremulous voice. The combination of Al's strange demeanour, the fire in his childhood home, and the collection of aches on his body was sapping his strength at an alarming rate. "Why else would he come?"

"If you go to him for help," Alphonse said, "I promise you he'll just leave us here. That's what adults do."

"But, Al—"

"Would you believe me, or him?"

Ed frowned. "Always you, Al—you know that."

"Then believe me that it's better if he doesn't know we're here."

"Alphonse, really—"

A growling, guttural roar whipped through the hallway; for a stupid, single second, Ed blamed the fire. But as he turned, trying his hardest to appear unflustered, he knew his previous assumption to be dreadfully incorrect. The apparition behind him didn't resemble his younger brother. Not at all. It looked as if the heat—which was strong, but bearable—had warped the steel of his body, transforming it instantly to a compound resembling quicksilver. His helmet was misshapen, the once-proud horn dripping onto the ground like candle wax. One eye, dead and dark, drifted towards the thing's breastplate; the other glowed with fury greater than the inferno in the room ahead. This wasn't Al! It _couldn't_ be Al! Yet Edward found himself uttering quick, thoughtless promises and assurances to 'Al'. He would listen—he really would, to _anything_ —if Al would calm down! Please, Alphonse, don't be mad; just listen! There's no point in us both dying—can't we leave through the back door?

Al gave no reply, seemingly unmoved even as tears of desperation simultaneously rolled and dried on Ed's flushed cheeks. The temperature was rising steadily and his eyes stung from the smoke. A forceful hammering sounded behind him, as if something was trying to break open the door. No— _no_ —Ed couldn't let them _see_ Alphonse like this!

"Please, Alphonse!" he tried once more, knowing that there was little more he _could_ do. His throat was sore; his voice was harsh and fractured. "Please—he won't know if we run out the back way. Alphonse, please. I-if I die, I can't bring your body back."

The monster suddenly seemed so much larger, so much more powerful, than his protector. Edward was a bug at the mercy of a curious child. Leisurely, without hurry, that child grasped his wings with chubby fingers, and _pulled_. He was being stretched in two directions—to Alphonse and to Jean—with only two options: be torn in half, or let go of one. Alphonse was his past, which left Havoc as his future—

But what adolescent thinks in such grand terms?

The choice could not possibly be his own, as Edward's brilliant mind had yet to make the connection—and now was not the time to make it. Just as the child tugged harder—just as both wings began to tear, depriving him both of a past and a future—Edward dropped. He hit the floor hard. The fire ate through its barricade.

It was over, the decision incomplete.

 **XxX**

Havoc's shoulder ached fiercely and blood weakened the vision in his right eye, but he was unable to stop. He threw himself at the door again and again, each attempt more urgent than the last. The fire was so close, singing the sleeve of his coat whenever he failed to recall its presence, as if personally offended at being forgotten. He wasn't going to make it; his shoulder was going to shatter before this door budged even an _inch_!

The sound of splintering broke the familiar rhythm, and for a single, terrifying moment, Havoc believed that it was his bones that gave such an awful shriek. In his mind's eye, he saw his arm hanging limply, shockingly white bones protruding from his skin like wayward arrows. He saw himself fall to his knees in pain, gritting his teeth to prevent a scream, as the fire finally escaped its invisible restraints and leapt forth, engulfing him and his shrieks.

In reality, he was so immersed in his imaginings that he dropped straight to the floor inside the house—almost without noticing. It took several seconds for him to blink, register the wood beneath his face, and realise what had happened.

The corridor was completely filled with smoke; it rushed out the door as it opened, and the flames grew. Fire was scuttling along the walls like a horde of spiders, crawling towards the ceiling like snakes. Havoc swiped at his watering eyes, cursing quietly under his breath. It was useless. There was _no way_ he could locate Edward in such a situation. What if he was upstairs? What if he were hidden somewhere, all logic abandoned to the blaze? And what if, heaven forbid, he were truly sitting in the rain in front of his brother's grave, completely oblivious to the fire and the cold? Havoc could have been wasting his time—and his life.

First things first, he _needed_ to put some distance between himself and the burning room on his left. In just seconds, that door would lose its struggle and allow a burst of flame to shoot, unhindered, into his face. If possible, he would like to be further away when that occurred.

His military training became extremely useful all of a sudden, as he forced long-dormant muscles into heavy strain. Inch by inch, he dragged himself forward, resting low to the ground, where the air was just slightly cleaner. The ceiling above him had caught alight, but this was barely visible through the smoke. In any case, Havoc refused to look. He would run quickly up the stairs, if feasible, to perform a rapid search of the second storey rooms. If Edward was there, he would bring him down. If he wasn't, Havoc would flee by himself. If he couldn't flee, he would die. That thought alone sent another surge of adrenaline through his tired muscles.

He crawled onwards, faster now, eyes closed against the smoke. Every now and then, he would open them to ascertain his position, and then continue. The stairs were always so far ahead, no matter how much he laboured. But then, as he travelled through one of those periods of flickering darkness, his arm hit something abnormal. It was soft, and solid, and human.

 _Who could—?_

 _Edward_.

"Chief!" Havoc roared, though their heads were merely breaths apart. The boy didn't stir. "Chief, are you hurt?"

Ed's bare back shuddered, and he opened one bleary golden eye. "Mr Havoc?"

"Can you move?"

He made a gesture that may have been a nod, then stiffly tried to roll over. He was barely conscious. Jean placed a steadying hand under his abdomen as the unsteady child attempted to mirror his position. The skin beneath his palm was slippery with sweat, understandably—but sweat had never been crimson.

"Edward," the soldier asked more frantically, " _Are you hurt_?"

"Nothing hurts," the boy replied weakly, sliding back to the floor. He looked as if he were ready to fall asleep once more. "It's warm."

Havoc clenched his teeth against some unknown, powerful emotion—perhaps fear and exasperation combined. "Chief, this is important: is there a back door?"

"Of course," Ed murmured, then he giggled. "Mr Havoc, this is important: do you prefer apples or tomatoes? They're both fruits—did you know that?"

"Do you know where you are?" Havoc questioned as he moved to pick Edward up. The boy swatted feebly at him.

"'Course…" Havoc manoeuvred him into his arms as Ed spoke quietly in his ear. The man was crouching now, preparing to sprint forward. He had one chance, or they would both suffocate. "The house is burning. N-no—I don't wanna move. Put me back. Put me down."

Jean took a moment to attempt to calm himself, but it seemed futile. "Take a deep breath," he recommended, before lurching forward.

 **XxX**

 _17 June 1911 — Day 5 at Rockbell Residence_

 _This assignment is impossible. There's no way that Edward Elric could be a valuable asset to the army, I'm sorry to report. It may seem insubordinate, and I apologise for this, but after the day I just had, I'm hoping that you'll find it excusable. I should start at the beginning._

 _Edward was avoiding me. I didn't realise it until Winry Rockbell said so, which I recognise as a mistake on my part. Another mistake is a bit harder to explain in writing. Essentially, I believe that she now knows that I'm a military dog, yet I have no way of proving this without casting more suspicion on myself. That brings me to after my conversation with Miss Rockbell:_

 _I went to find Edward; he wasn't anywhere in the house. It was raining pretty heavily, and with that automail leg of his, it should be clear that it was dangerous outside. I thought he would be at the cemetery (a frequent haunt of his) but never quite made it there. Somehow, he had walked all the way to his old home and set a fire in the front room. Mrs Rockbell hasn't been able to wake him since I brought him back, so we don't know whether it was intentional or an accident. I can't see the Elric house from where I'm sitting now, but from the balcony, I could see that the fire hasn't been extinguished yet. There won't be much left come morning—or even night. It's hard to believe that it's barely an hour past midday; this morning seemed to last an eternity._

 _Mrs Rockbell, as I think I mentioned earlier, has been by Edward's side ever since we returned. She sent Winry away after finding some pretty horrific wounds on the boy's chest, without saying why. Winry locked herself in her room in protest, and while I can understand her frustration, I understand Mrs Rockbell's need to keep her away more. It looks like Edward has carved something into his_ skin _, Mustang—it's a bit shaky, and I don't have much knowledge in this area, but it looks like a transmutation circle. It's circular with lines crossing the inside in a grid-like pattern, and in the middle is a symbol that I can only describe as a hook. I'll attach a sketch below this entry—does it sound familiar? It's terrible, Mustang. It takes up almost all of his chest and I'm amazed that he was able to_ survive _such an assault, let alone move._

 _This isn't a job for the military, sir. Edward needs a doctor, and soon, for both his chest and his mind._

 **XxX**

 _ **Thanks for reading! I'm not so keen about this chapter, sorry. Next one's the last!**_


	6. Understandings

**_ILLUSORY_**

 ** _It's late again! I lost the document with this chapter and only recently stumbled on it—sorry to anyone still reading! Last chapter at last, thanks to all who made it this far :)_**

 ** _CHAPTER SIX • Understandings_**

"Mr Havoc, can I talk to you?" Winry stood in the doorway to the living room, somehow awkward in her own home. Her earlier hostility seemed vanished, overshadowed by the fatigue of the previous day. It was now almost dawn, though difficult to separate from night. No one save Edward was able to sleep.

Realising that he hadn't answered, and that Winry was growing more and more uncomfortable, Havoc stammered out a hasty permission.

She wasted no time in revealing her intentions, "Mr Havoc… I-I need to ask you something. It's about yesterday."

A numbing chill ran down his spine. "About…"

"Not Ed." She shook her head, staring deep into the fire. Aside from the crackling, it was deathly quiet. With Edward's injuries, 'deathly' was much too accurate a description. "It's about the military."

Jean paused a moment too long to laugh at the insinuation that he was involved—too late and too uncertain besides. Suddenly, the thought of Edward as a subject of conversation was almost _comfortable_. At least it wasn't interwoven with deceit.

"What about the military?" he finally asked. If questioned, he would claim that the hoarseness of his voice came from the smoke—his throat was still scratchy, you must understand—and had _nothing whatsoever_ to do with the sudden tightening of his chest.

Winry turned her reddened, strong gaze on him, and he was cowed. There was no lying beneath those eyes. "Are you really a friend of the family? Granny never mentioned you. Not until you came."

"I—" he began, a reply tingling on his lips. It never went any further, trapped by clawing guilt. He looked away.

For several tense moments—an eternity encased in seconds—even the rain outside ceased. Silence was a tangible weight, churning his stomach and pounding in his head.

"Please just tell me. Where are you from?"

Havoc sighed and leant forward, pressing thumbs against the throbbing in his temples. Still hunched over, he spoke in a resigned tone, "I really am a country boy. Born and raised. It's just… There wasn't enough excitement out here for me."

"So you went to Central and became a soldier." There was no judgment in her voice, just a soft certainty.

He huffed out a laugh—it came out as weary as the rest of him. "Central? I wasn't good enough for Central. And… it would've been too much, I think, to go from, well, _this_ —" he straightened up and gestured to the darkened window, imagining clear skies and luscious fields, "—to the biggest city in Amestris… It would've been impossible.

"I went to East City, and yes—things happened and I became a soldier."

"How did you get here?" she questioned. "Did Granny ask you?"

"She was running out of options."

All at once, Winry's bitterness was discernible in the way she said, "And _you_ were the last option. Why _you_?"

"Winry, I—"

"It's not as if you _helped._ Ed only ended up in that fire 'cause you turned up and… and _disrupted_ everything."

Havoc attempted a respectful retort, but was prevented by two things: first, his mind was blank. He had nothing to say—could not defend himself in the _slightest_. Secondly, Winry was already apologising.

"I'm sorry—I-I didn't mean to sound—"

"No, don't—you don't have anything to be sorry about, Miss Rockbell. Please."

Winry stared at him for a single, unnerving second, then away. "It's Winry," she muttered, shifting her feet. "And I… I don't want you to think that I hate you. I don't. That's the problem."

Havoc frowned, then thoughtlessly questioned, "Why don't you hate me?"

"Do you want me to?" A tiny smile broke on her face. "It's because… you… you aren't what I thought the military would be. I thought you'd be all—all orders and strict and… You were just _nice_. You played cards with us, and read us stories, and tried to help, even when…"

Havoc read the end of the sentence from her expression. _Even when you were really making everything worse._

Her miserable face mirrored his own. "I wish I could blame you for this."

"You should." He shrugged at her surprise. "I know that I'll never forgive myself if anything… _permanent_ happens to Ed. Those scars on his chest will probab—"

"There are _scars_ on his chest?" Winry interrupted, her hands claws on the arms of her chair. Her complexion was pale, but there were bright splashes of colour across cheekbones, as if feverish. She appeared almost to hover above the seat, held up only by the force of her agitation. "There are _scars_? H-how—did he do it to _himself_?"

The flush of crimson spread—much as it must have spilled over Ed's skin as he carved that horrific, careful design—until the teal of her irises _glowed_ in contrast. Sensing it a moment too late, Jean pitched forward in a vain attempt to halt her tears before they began. He wasn't fast enough. He wasn't fast enough to avoid her tears. He wasn't fast enough to catch her as she ran.

A theme was beginning to form.

He was too slow to catch either of these children. He was too slow to save them. Not properly.

 **XxX**

When Edward awoke, it was to hear faint snoring on the pillow beside his head. Soft breath tickled his ear; he moved slowly and found Granny lying alongside him, one hand draped near his waist like she was afraid to touch the thick ring of bandages across his torso. It was constricting. His ribs felt tight around his pounding heart—and it _was_ pounding. He couldn't stop it. A terrible fear had blurred the edges of his vision from the moment of his return to consciousness. A fear of what?

He wasn't sure.

He wasn't _sure_ , but numerous possibilities crowded his mind. Maybe this was why he couldn't locate a cause? There wasn't one single reason, but rather a cauldron filled to the brim with his anxieties.

As clarity trickled back, it was easier to separate these worries into categories, sections, groups. There was fear of the darkness in the room—how could it be so murky while the clock read midday?; of disturbing Granny when he inevitably moved; of childhood monsters long forgotten—almost; of the injuries muffled beneath his bandages.

And, certainly, of Alphonse.

Why Alphonse? Why was he the most threatening shadow on Edward's heart? He wasn't even in the room! But, as Ed noticed this, he also noticed that this perturbation only increased his unease. Al's notable lack at his sickbed was worrisome to an extent where nausea bubbled under his skin.

He needed to move.

It was excruciating—Granny's proximity limited his speed and every second spent in this eerie room was _feeding_ his queasiness. Bile burnt at the back of his throat. His eyes watered. His chest twinged. His breath was coming in smothered gasps— _don't wake Granny!_

Feet hanging off the edge of the bed—not touching; he wasn't quite tall enough _yet_ —he paused, watching, waiting, and Granny snored. Her wrinkles deepened and her fingers flexed, as if searching for his warmth. Edward yearned for that warmth, but the desire to lie down, to let her comfort him, was diminished compared to the fear that… that… _what?_

No, he couldn't stay. That's all there was to it. The rear door that often served as his escape from household chores was locked.

But that never stopped an alchemist.

 **XxX**

" _Edward!_ "

Jean jolted forward, his boots slamming onto the rug with a _thud!_ His back and neck ached from the odd position, and only the fatigue continuing to cling to his bones proved that he had been dead to the world mere moments before. Blinking, he considered the possibility that he still _was_ asleep—especially as Mrs Rockbell, before this the living embodiment of dignity, stumbled stiffly into the living room, conducted a frenzied search with only her wild, panicked eyes, and, finding it empty save for Havoc, let out a worried whine. Then, hand over hand, she followed the wall into the kitchen, leaning heavily as if all of the strength had abandoned her legs; it had rushed forward, too impatient to carry her withered body alongside.

Havoc's jaw closed with a _click_ , and the shock of the sound added to the shock of the scene before him. It forced him up, out of the armchair, into a dizzy vertical. Mrs Rockbell was searching the kitchen, moving pots and pans and throwing items out of the pantry at random— _is Edward here?_ —in a savage desperation. Jean wasn't sure what she might do _when_ she found her grandson: embrace him, or tie him to the bed as a precaution? The woman he had lived beside for the past few days was now even more of a stranger than the woman who approached him from the train.

They were no longer one and the same.

A combination of fears, much like the combination of surprise, forced him once again into action. Instinctively, his feet drew him away from the unknown bashing the oven open and closed, open and closed, wishing every time that it may open to reveal her disturbed grandchild—like a wonderful magician's trick! His feet ran him down the hall, past Winry's frightened questions, and towards the back of the house.

The back door.

Why the back door? Jean wasn't sure until he was crouched down, searching for the key that he knew Pinako had stashed behind the skirting. She had locked it after realising how Edward had escaped—escaped—escaped—escaped— _he had done it again_. He'd escaped again, covered in lacerations and lungs full of smoke—one leg the weight of half his body and more—he had escaped _again_.

Was it the same? Had he run out the same way? Maybe _that_ was why Havoc's feet brought him here.

Follow.

His fingers brushed the key from its home and, shaking, forced it into the lock. But it didn't turn. The door opened, but the _lock didn't turn_.

It was already open.

 **XxX**

The rain had ceased, but its taste was sharp on the air. Despite being midday, the ground was encased in twilight. Where was Al?

There he was, somewhere ahead. So far. But Edward had walked this path his whole life—more recently as of late. He knew where to go. Alphonse was leading him.

Edward had led him for so long, so far; it was only fair that he was allowed to relinquish the responsibility for just a _moment_. Just a moment. For just a moment, he would look to his younger, wiser, brother for guidance and _something may go right_. He had ruined so much, Edward had. Driven his father away; killed his mother as a result; convinced Alphonse that _older_ equals _wiser_. No. No. Definitely not.

Definitely wrong.

He had ruined so much.

Rain fell, but not from the sky. The ground it nourished would not know the difference, save to remark—complain—that this rain was salty. Would the salt kill them just as it killed the weeds in Granny's garden? Should he feel guilty that his sorrow, _regret_ , had destroyed even more? A sob ripped his chest apart and he stumbled. The soft ground caved beneath his weight; it couldn't fight back. The absence of blood was terrifyingly disappointing— _why?_

Just do it, Brother.

I thought you _loved me_!

"I _do_ , Al," Ed insisted, but his voice was a whisper and his brother was far ahead. So far.

So far.

He was _so far away!_ Even when his cold steel was pressed against Ed's cheek, or held to his fragile throat— _don't you trust me, Brother?_ —Alphonse had been so far away. _I won't hurt you, Brother_. His body was gone, unravelled, worse than merely cold— _not like you hurt me, Brother_ —it no longer existed…

Did it?

Edward was sitting in front of the gravestone.

Not his mother's—that lay one metre to his right—but in front of the blank, empty, eerie stone. He had seen one similar on that fateful night, surrounded by a white so bright and menacing just the memory of the placed caused a bolt of lightning to shoot across the sky. The illumination threw strange shadows onto the smooth grey rock. Shadows where there should not be shadows.

Where was Al?

 _Where?_

Metal fingers clinked on the sacred Stone and a drop of cold water numbed the numb wrist and sent tingles up his unfeeling arm and shudders through his bandage-swaddled body and why and when and _where did these letters come from_?

Immediately, he became illiterate—

those letters don't exist if I can't read them—

but the rain was falling harder and with every heavy impact—

each as violent as the gunshots that took the lives of—

a letter returned until—

no no not yet don't show me—

the names and dates—

I don't wanna see—

Reappeared.

 _Alphonse Elric_

 _1900–1910_

 **XxX**

Edward had been a difficult child, even when he lived more than a mile down the road from her front yard. He always ended up banging at the door at odd hours of the day—or even the night—with burning, impatient questions.

Can Winry come play?

Is Alphonse here?

Can you come look at Mother? I think she's sick.

Edward had often been pale-faced and frowning as he inquired about his missing brother's whereabouts, but _never_ before, or after, had Pinako seen that particular shade of worry on his young face. It had turned his skin grey; his cheekbones and eyes were crimson. Pinako remembered wondering how he had run so far with those tears obstructing his vision and those knees knocking so painfully.

So far.

How did he make it?

How would _she_ make it? He wasn't in his room, huddled against her side, swathed in bandages over bandages just so she wouldn't need to _see_ those awful _scars_ or how dreadfully frail he had become. He wasn't in the living room, thanking the condemnable soldier. He wasn't in the kitchen. He was outside. Somewhere.

How would she make it? Her legs shook; her vision swam. Never had she felt so _old_. Heavily, Pinako collapsed into the chair that Jean had forsaken, unable to distinguish between horrible past and deplorable present.

Winry cried as her parents left. Her grandmother doubted she knew why. A girl so small could never have fully understood war. Pinako hoped.

Her granddaughter cried as the letter was read. Did she know why? Pinako remembered receiving it—the postman had brought it special, just to offer her comfort in a grimace that showed his own fatigue. That sinking feeling in her soul had never truly stopped, no matter how she claimed to have healed since that moment. She was falling.

She was falling again.

The air was charged with electricity—the type that clouded the air when Edward and Alphonse performed their alchemy. It had been especially strong on _that night_. For a horrifying second, she was drawn back to _that night_ —that basement— _that blood._ That suit of armour glowed in her memory; had it glowed such a horrible, unnatural blue in reality? She closed her eyes, and behind her closed lids, the lightning was vanished. Only the lightning. Was she sitting? If she hadn't been before, she was now. Everything was numb.

"Granny? What're you doing?"

She was in the kitchen—Pinako knew this much—but when Winry's voice drew her out of her thoughts, it was with great surprise that she found herself sitting on the floor. Now, the handles of the cupboard pressed hard against her back and her neck ached something wicked.

A cold hand rested against her forehead, Winry frowning down at her. It was at moments like these that Pinako could see her son and daughter-in-law in her granddaughter. She missed them.

"Win—" her voice broke and she couldn't continue. Not until her girl joined her on the ground, offering her warmth to counteract the cold of the floor. The action encouraged her to try again. "Winry." For the first time since their deaths, tears welled up in her exhausted eyes. "Thank you."

 **XxX**

He felt… empty. He was alone—truly alone—for the first time in… how long? Alphonse had led him here, and left him here. He had supported Edward's poisoned dreams—he had studied with him _night after night_ —and… for what? To _die_? Ed's earlier panic had receded as slowly as it began and now he was…

Empty.

What would he do without Alphonse?

 _What can we do without Mother?_

Oh yes, he remembered uttering those words. He was perhaps two feet to the right of his current position, standing on wooden legs. Now he was kneeling on one of flesh, one of steel. Back then, there was only a single gravestone to occupy his attention, and it did. Even with Teacher, even at the Rockbell's, just a thought could transport him back to this place, and just that thought could assassinate any traitorous doubts. We'll bring her home, to us. We'll bring her home.

And Edward looked up again, and laid his steel hand against his brother's name. Carefully, daintily, one shiny, metal finger traced down the slope of an A, sketching the letter like a child learning to spell.

A.

L.

He hesitated at the P. There was a chip in the stone, a small blemish, inside its perfect loop. He touched it. It blushed crimson. The Stone was crying tears of blood.

At the H, he became aware of a low murmur and the movement of his lips; he was speaking, mumbling several phrases that, to anyone who could not hear, may have seemed a prayer. Edward listened, dragging his finger down the character so hard that his touch left an imprint, like a memory, blushing crimson against the grey.

He listened.

And what he heard was the past. He heard Al's uncertainty, his reassurances, those exchanges that lasted way into the night and now kept him from sleep. He heard his own voice, but behind it lurked the silence of the Gate, the crackling of befouled alchemy, hollow footsteps on dirt paths. His tone was reverent, and his expression was scared. But doesn't that make sense? Men and women who believed in faith above all else were no different than those who believed in anything other. He believed in his brother; he believed in his alchemical ability. But his alchemical ability had failed him; he had lost his brother. In a way, he had lost his faith.

He should bring it back.

Edward circled the O and imagined it was filled with intricate runes. He could do it again—the transmutation circle was fresh in his mind, even after so long. The ground was soft, he had another arm to give, he could _bring him back._

 _Bring him back, please!_

His automail was bleeding.

Staring dumbly, Ed raised the hand to his face. A drop of blood the size of a rice grain beaded at the tip of one digit and rolled into his palm. He blinked. The palm was flesh, soft, tan, scarlet. He blinked. It was cold steel and scuffed metal—no blood. He must have imagined it.

And yet he wasn't surprised when the letter N sent a sharp ache all the way up to his shoulder, where his automail was bolted tightly. He wasn't surprised, but intrigued. A firmer push caused more pain—pain that _shouldn't_ have existed, not in an automail hand! It was fake! It was metal! It was a prosthesis! It had no nerve endings, no receptors, no _blood_. So he pushed harder, with two additional fingers, and pulled on the S as it to pry it from the Stone.

 _Snap!_

A nail came loose and frigid air agonised the exposed wound—suddenly it was _real_. Panting heavier than he had realised, Ed tore off the dangling horror and spat it into the grass in front of his mother's grave. It lay above her heart.

 _Snap!_

Everything made sense. He never gave up his arm to the Truth. He never saved his brother. The headstone before him was not merely a _headstone_ , but a marker for his brother's final resting place. Ed glanced upwards. Alphonse nodded, and Ed wasn't able to distinguish between armour and boy. How he was there, and for how long, were questions that never entered Ed's mind. There was only one thought inside, and it soon greeted the air.

"I'm gonna bring you back." Alphonse's face didn't change, but disapproval seeped into Ed's veins. "No, no, it'll _work_ this time, Al! I've been thinking, and isn't it so obvious? The materials we used—"

 _Water, 35 litres._

"—They were wrong! What if—"

 _Carbon, 20 kilograms._

"—What if they were _wrong_ , I mean…"

 _Ammonia, 4 litres._

"We just threw ingredients in. That wasn't Mother." Ed deflated physically, but his determination simply flared. "What if she contained—"

 _Lime, 15 kilograms._

"—more carbon than the average human? Or she had—"

 _Phosphorus, 800 grams._

"—less iron?"

 _Salt, 250 grams._

"We gave our blood for the soul information; I thought that would work. _Stupid._ "

 _Saltpeter, 100 grams._

"That wasn't her body—it wasn't even a good copy." The boy stood, and no one was there to witness his stumble back to earth. "There was no way her soul—"

 _Sulphur, 80 grams._

"—would bond to… to _that_." He began marking out the circle on his knees. It would be bigger than before, to compensate for the energy required to locate the corpse. Corpse?

 _Fluorine, 7.5 grams._

"But this time it'll be easy, Al! I already have the body." Grinning, he wobbled, and fixed a distortion in the circle's perimeter.

 _Silicon, 3 grams._

"I'm gonna bring you back, Al. Properly, this time." A sorrowful laugh rang across the cemetery. "We'll be a family again!

 _…_ _and trace amounts of 15 other elements._

His pants were damaged beyond repair, saturated with water and muck, but their chill didn't reach him. Despite the lack of a real shirt—only bandages protected his frail body from the cold—he shivered not from the glacial wind. He shivered from a feverish fire blossoming deep within his bones, biting at the insides of his skin with an urgency that begged him to _work faster work faster work faster!_ Al was waiting. Al was watching.

Al was his motivation. Always.

The outline was complete; it was perfect. It skimmed Mother's grave—one at a time, one at a time!—which meant that Alphonse didn't lie _exactly_ in the centre of the circle, but of course that didn't matter. They had taken _so much care_ to place the materials directly in the centre that first time, and what had that helped? What had that changed? Ed paused and sat back on his haunches, staring at the headstone dumbly. An idea had formed in his mind and, though it made bile rise to the back of his throat, it was tempting. He couldn't let it pass. He couldn't force it from his head. His fingers twitched. They touched. They rested against the ground.

Alchemical light and energy pushed Ed's sodden hair away from his face, and, for a moment, he thought the circle had activated. It was incomplete—no more than a sketch, lacking even the most essential details—there was no way it could be the source of this light.

And it wasn't. The brilliance shone from between Edward's spread fingers, running through the ground like veins, distorting the earth with giant hands. They were _his_ hands; he controlled this—not mentally, but subconsciously. His were the hands that dug deeper, deeper, six feet down into the mud and rocks and dirt. The alchemy licked at his palms; he was a conduit. There was no need for a circle.

He _was_ the circle.

Alphonse broke through the surface, encased in a plain wooden box. Half-rotted already, the lid skewed to the side and clods of mud fell like bombs. Lingering arcs of electricity fluttered over the casket as Ed scrambled towards it, reminiscent of the single fictional novel he had desperately consumed in case _Frankenstein_ held any clues to human transmutation. Thunder growled, lightning flared, and Ed flung the coffin's lid as far as his trembling arms could manage.

The sight that greeted him had him sprinting after it, the contents of his stomach keen to escape. Tears burnt at his eyes; tears of disappointment, or from the fire of his throat? Rain pelted against his bandaged back, soothing the feverish shock and ripping him back into the present. It, blessedly, smothered the stench of vomit and washed his face and hands, but not his mind. Not his memory.

His brother once had such beautiful eyes.

Not now.

Not _yet_.

 **XxX**

Jean leant heavily against the entrance to the graveyard, throwing up a silent prayer that the old timber might support his weight until such a time as he could support it himself. It wasn't exhaustion that stole all the strength from his legs—he was tired, certainly, and struggling pitifully for breath.

No

He was sure that he could have continued to run, right to Edward's side, had he not _seen_ what was currently at Edward's side. Suddenly, even the encouragement of the wooden post at his back could prevent him from falling to his knees. He was going to throw up. He had to. Because maybe… maybe it could distract him enough to forget what he saw _just for a moment!_

A sob of disbelief bubbled from his lips, but that was all. That was all, and then he was aware of movement—would he faint?—as the ground rushed away. He rushed forward, a dreadful fear caressing his heart, just waiting for the chance to _strike!_ It was dreadful in nature simply due to its familiarity; he had experienced this before less than one day previously. He rushed forward.

Edward glanced up at his name, screeched in a frantic manner that shocked Havoc as much as the boy. Jean was allowing himself to slow, to release some of that swollen terror, as Ed peered up at him as if he were a curiosity.

 _Why're you here?_

He almost freed a laugh, as deserved as it may have been, of sheer relief, if not for the sheet of wavering blue light that abruptly flickered into life, then died. Pausing a moment, to explore several options—hallucination? real? dangerous?—the soldier found no other choice than to follow forwards.

The blue light shocked him; he staggered a few feet.

"Mr Havoc?" Ed questioned as soon as their exchange was unimpeded.

Jean shook his head, cleared his throat, and managed to croak a hoarse, "Yeah?"

"How'd you find me?"

That was purely Edward—no asking why, or what, but _how_. _How_ does this work? _How_ can I do that, too? _How_ did you find me? I hid so well.

"I, uh…" He darted his eyes up to the child, the young prodigy, and immediately withdrew once more. That… That corpse, in his arms… Did he even realise? "I just… just thought you might be here. What're you doing here, chief?"

"Nothing."

"Really, chief?" Havoc attempted a casual smile and a laugh, hoping his stomach would settle soon. "Then if you're doing nothing, what do you say to coming home and drying off with me?"

Edward scowled; it was somehow audible. "I don't wanna go back yet. I'll come back soon, you don't have to wait."

"Your grandmother—"

"Tell her I have a surprise for her—she'll like it! Th-then she won't mind."

"She will mind if you're sick," Havoc said flatly. Edward wouldn't reply. "You're already weak from yesterday, with the fire and… whatever made those scars." He and Mrs Rockbell both knew only Edward could have made those scars. He still didn't speak, leaving Havoc with little alternative. "Does this surprise have anything to do with that, uh… in your arms?"

Ed was quiet for so long that Jean started to flounder for another question, anything, to keep the boy occupied until… something. But then he spoke.

"I learnt a lot today, Mr Havoc," he said in a voice so low it barely won against the rain. His body shivered and Havoc tried not to imagine the body following suit. "I learnt that…most of what I thought was true wa-wasn't true. My arm isn't automail; I n-never helped Al; and he n-never su-survived the transmutation. It's what Winry and Granny s-said all along, but I'm just _stupid_."

Jean opened his mouth to retort, though Ed charged on regardless of whatever protest he could have formed.

"But now that I kn- _know_ that, I can fix it, Mr Havoc, I can! I've already told Al, an-and it's gonna work this time!"

"That's Alphonse in your arms, isn't it?" he asked, only realising after how little he desired an answer.

"It's not Al yet," Ed declared assuredly, his tone strong and confident. "It _will_ be."

Havoc recognised his intent instantly and alarm raced through his limbs like an electric shock. He hammered on the barrier that separated him from his charge, yelling objections and pleas for Ed to _stop and we'll talk about this later!_ This didn't need to be done _now_ , of all times, in the rain—what a-a miserable day for… for…

A human transmutation.

In his shock, Jean was able to look directly into Ed's face as it morphed into hatred and anger. The, " _Don't tell me what to do!_ " emerged as an enraged hiss and the boy's grip on his brother tightened until Jean feared for the integrity of the exposed bones.

There might have been more said. There might have been more chances to save him. But in that second, as Jean was pulling away from the alchemical ward, its energy leapt, malicious, searching, and flung him so far he lost a sense of time. This was his purgatory—the alchemy had stopped his heart; soon he would greet the afterlife, or whatever came beyond. His purgatory was a weightless, timeless void filled with naught but white noise and impatience.

Then he hit the ground, head angled towards Edward and his precious corpse, and he might have whispered _no_ but what did a whisper matter? A whisper wouldn't slow Ed's sure actions— _doesn't he need a circle?_ A whisper wouldn't force his hands apart— _at least draw a circle!_ A whisper didn't matter.

The white noise of his purgatory broke beneath the weight of a child's scream.

That's how he knew there would be no Heaven waiting.

There was no question of _why_ or _what_ or _how._

 **XxX**

 _I guess this will be my last report. I'm coming back as soon as the next train passes; my bags are already packed. You won't be expecting me, I know, and it'll probably be a few days before I can deliver this diary to you. I need some time for myself—hopefully you'll understand._

 _I can't help but worry that it was my presence that caused all this to happen. Perhaps I should come speak to you. I trust you'd always tell the truth, no matter how hard it may be to hear. Honestly, I'd like to hear it from someone else—I'd like to hear_ anything _, this house is so silent. I'm already being blamed by Mrs Rockbell and her granddaughter, though they'd never say it now. There's no way in hell that I grew as fond of Edward over less than one week than they have over so many years, and yet it was impossible not to grow fond of him at all. If circumstances had permitted, I would have loved to have him in our team. He was young, but knowledgeable in ways that I'll never understand. I don't even understand_ how _I know he was knowledgeable—it was just the impression I got._

 _But I'm deviating, and I know why. I'm talking—or writing, really—about what could have been because I ruined the chances of it ever happening. I keep thinking about what I could have done—what I_ should _have done—yet still I'm drawing a blank. This condition of his was serious, I know, and it would have eventually have resulted in something similar to this. At least, this is what I keep telling myself. One day, perhaps in a few months, perhaps in a few years, Edward would want to make a new friend, or maybe he'd find a nice girl. This… armour. I'm still not sure what it is, exactly. You know me, Mustang, I'm not much of a believer in the supernatural, but could the mind really be this powerful? Is it possible that this possessive armour thing could be completely mental? If it is, how can we know if any of our acquaintances are real?_

 _Look at me, getting all philosophical! And I'm_ still _not writing what I want to write. I think it's impossible, without the aid of some strong alcohol. But there's no time for drinking; the train should be coming any minute, and I don't want to miss it. If I do, I'll have to walk home. There's no way I can stay here._

 _I'll summarise quickly, since there isn't much time left. Edward was a wonderful boy, but he lost his future as soon as he performed that transmutation. I didn't know him that well._

 _I wish I did._


End file.
